Class 
Book. 




Copyright^ . 



_ 



_ 



cdeought DEPosm 



LIVELIHOOD 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY ■ CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



LIVELIHOOD 



DRAMATIC REVERIES 



BY 
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 

AUTHOR OF " DAILY BREAD," " BORDERLANDS AND 
THOROUGHFARES," " BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS," ETC. 



Nm fork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1917 

All rights reserved 






Copyright, 191 7 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 191 7 



*'; 



*j/^» 



JAN -4 1917 



)Q^A453531 



TO AUDREY 

Audrey, these men and women I have known 
I have brought together in a book for you, 
So that my child some day when she is grown 
May know the friendly folk her father knew. 

Wondering how fathers can be so absurd, 
Perhaps you'll take it idly from the shelves, 
And, reading, hear, as once I overheard, 
These men and women talking to themselves. 

And so find out how they faced life and earned, 
As you one day must earn, a livelihood, 
And how, in spite of everything, they learned 
To take their luck through life and find it good. 

And, maybe, as you share each hope and fear 
And all the secrets that they never told, 
For their sake you'll forgive your father, dear, 
Almost for being so absurd and old. 

And may it somewhat help to make amends 
To think that, in their sorrow and their mirth, 
Such men and women were your father's friends 
In old incredible days before your birth. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Prelude. The Old Nail-Shop 3 

The Shaet 5 

In the Orchestra 12 

The Swing *7 

The Drove-Road 21 

The Rocklight 28 

The Plough 35 

The Old Piper 39 

The News 44 

Daffodils 54 

Between the Lines 59 

Strawberries 66 

The Blast-Furnace . 7° 

In the Meadow 76 

Partners ^o 

The Elm 8 7 

The Doctor 9 1 

The Lamp 9<5 

The Platelayer io 5 

Makeshifts io 9 



Vll 



LIVELIHOOD 



THE OLD NAIL-SHOP 

I dreamt of wings, — and waked to hear 
Through the low-sloping ceiling clear 
The nesting starlings flutter and scratch 
Among the rafters of the thatch, 
Not twenty inches from my head; 
And lay, half-dreaming in my bed, 
Watching the far elms— bolt-upright 
Black towers of silence in a night 
Of stars, between the window-sill 
And the low-hung eaves, square-framed, until 
I drowsed, and must have slept a wink . . . 
And wakened to a ceaseless clink 
Of hammers ringing on the air . . . 
And, somehow, only half-aware, 
I'd risen and crept down the stair, 
Bewildered by strange smoky gloom, 
Until I'd reached the living-room 
That once had been a nail-shop shed. 
And where my hearth had blazed, instead 
I saw the nail-forge glowing red; 
And, through the stife and smoky glare, 
Three dreaming women standing there 
With hammers beating red-hot wire 
On tinkling anvils, by the fire, 
To ten-a-penny nails; and heard — 
Though none looked up or breathed a word — 
3 



LIVELIHOOD 

The song each heart sang to the tune 
Of hammers, through a summer's noon, 
When they had wrought in that red glow, 
Alive, a hundred years ago — 
The song of girl and wife and crone, 
Sung in the heart of each alone . . . 

The dim-eyed crone with nodding head — 
"He's dead; and I'll, too, soon be dead." 

The grave-eyed mother, gaunt with need — 
"Another little mouth to feed!" 

The black-eyed girl, with eyes alight — 
"I'll wear the yellow beads to-night." 



THE SHAFT 

He must have lost his way, somehow. 'Twould 

seem 
He'd taken the wrong turning, back a bit, 
After his lamp ... or was it all a dream 
That he'd nigh reached the cage — his new lamp lit 
And swinging in his hand, and whistling, glad 
To think the shift was over — when he'd tripped 
And stumbled, like the daft, club-footed lad 
His mother called him; and his lamp had slipped 
And smashed to smithereens; and left him there 
In pitchy dark, half-stunned, and with barked 

shins? 
He'd cursed his luck; although he didn't care, 
Not overmuch: you suffered for your sins: 
And, anyway, he must be nigh the shaft; 
And he could fumble his way out somehow, 
If he were last, and none came by. 'Twas daft 
To do a trick like thon. 

And even now 
His mother would be waiting. How she'ld laugh 
To hear about it! She was always game 
For fun, she was, and such a one for chaff — 
A fellow had no chance. But 'twas the same 
With women always: you could never tell 
What they'ld be at, or after saying next: 
They'd such queer, tricky tongues; and it was well 
For men to let them talk when they were vexed — 

5 



LIVELIHOOD 

Although, his mother, she was seldom cross. 

But she'ld be wondering, now, ay, that she would — 

Hands folded in her apron, at a loss 

To know what kept him, even now she stood, 

Biting her lips, he'ld warrant. She aye bit 

Her lips till they were white when things went 

wrong. 
She'd never liked his taking to the pit, 
After his father'd. . . . Ay, and what a song 
She'ld make . . . and supper cold! It must be 

late. 
The last on the last shift! After to-day 
The pit was being laid idle! Jack, his mate, 
Had left him, tidying — hurrying away 
To back . . . And no night-shift . . . 

If that cursed lamp 
Had not gone out. . . . But that was hours ago — 
How many hours he couldn't tell. The cramp * 
Was in his thighs. And what could a lad know 
Who'd crawled for hours upon his hands and knees 
Through miles on miles of hot, black, dripping night 
Of low-roofed, unfamiliar galleries? 
He'ld give a hundred pound to stand upright 
And stretch his legs a moment: but, somehow, 
He'd never reached a refuge, though he'd felt 
The walls on either hand. He'd bumped his brow 
Till he was dizzy. And the heat would melt 
The marrow in his bones. And yet he'd gone 
A dozen miles at least, and hadn't found 
Even a crossway. On and on and on 
He'd crawled, and crawled ; and never caught a sound 

6 



THE SHAFT 

Save water dripping, dripping, or the creak 
Of settling coal. If he could only hear 
His own voice even; but he dared not speak 
Above a whisper . . . 

There was naught to fear; 
And he was not afraid of aught, not he! 
He would come on a shaft, before he knew. 
He couldn't miss. The longest gallery 
Must end somewhere or other; though 'twas true 
He hadn't guessed the drift could be so long. 

If he had not come straight ... If he had turned, 
Unknowing, in the dark ... If he'd gone wrong 
Once, then why not a dozen times! It burned 
His very heart to tinder, just to think 
That he, maybe, was crawling round and round 
And round and round, and hadn't caught a blink 
Of light at all, or hadn't heard a sound. . . . 
'Twas queer, gey queer . . . 

Or was he going daft, 
And only dreaming he was underground 
In some black pit of hell, without a shaft — 
Just one long gallery that wound and wound, 
Where he must crawl for ever with the drip 
Of lukewarm water drumming on his back . . . 

'Twas nightmare, surely, had him in its grip. 
His head was like to split, his spine to crack . . . 
If he could only call, his mother'ld come 
And shake him; and he 'Id find himself in bed . . . 
She'ld joke his fright away . . . But he was dumb, 



LIVELIHOOD 

And couldn't shout to save himself . . . His head 
Seemed full of water, dripping, dripping, drip- 
ping . . . 
And he, somehow, inside it — huge and dark 
His own skull soared above him ... He kept 

slipping, 
And clutching at the crumbling walls ... A 

spark 
Flared suddenly; and to a blood-red blaze 
His head was bursting; and the pain would 
break . . . 

'Twas solid coal he'd run against, adaze — 
Coal, sure enough. And he was broad awake, 
And crawling still through that unending drift 
Of some old working, long disused. He'd known 
That there were such. If he could only lift 
His head a moment; but the roof of stone 
Crushed low upon him. A gey narrow seam 
He must be in, — and bad to work: no doubt 
That's why 'twas given up. He'ld like to scream, 
His cut knees hurt so sorely; but a shout 
Might bring the crumbling roof down on his head, 
And squash him flat. 

If he could only creep 
Between the cool white sheets of his own bed, 
And turn towards the wall, and sleep, and sleep — 
And dream, maybe, of pigeons soaring high, 
Turning and tumbling in the morning light, 
With wings ashimmer in a cloudless sky. 
He'ld give the world to see a bonnie flight 

8 



THE SHAFT 

Of his own pigeons rise with flapping wings, 
Soaring and sweeping almost out of sight, 
Till he was dizzy, watching the mad things 
Tossing and tumbling at that dazzling height. 
Ay, and his homers, too — if they'd come in, 
He hoped his mother'd fed them. They would be 
Fair famished after such a flight, and thin. 
But she would feed them, sure enough; for she 
Liked pigeons, too — would stand there at the door 
With arms akimbo, staring at the blue, 
Her black eyes shining as she watched them soar, 
Without a word, till they were out of view. 
And how she laughed to hear them scold and pout, 
Ruffle and fuss — like menfolk, she would say: 
Nobody knowing what 'twas all about, 
And least of all themselves. That was her way, 
To joke and laugh the tantrums out of him. 
He'ld tie his neckerchief before the glass; 
And she'ld call him her pigeon, Peter Prim, 
Preening himself, she'd say, to meet his lass — 
Though he'd no lass, not he! A scarf well tied, 
No gaudy colours, just a red or yellow, 
Was what he fancied. What harm if he tried 
To keep himself respectable! A fellow — 
Though womenfolk might laugh and laugh . . . 

And now 
He wondered if he'ld hear her laugh again 
With hands on hips and sparkling eyes. His 

brow 
Seemed clampt with red-hot iron bands; and pain 
Shot red-hot needles through his legs — his back, 

9 



LIVELIHOOD 

A raw and aching spine that bore the strain 
Of all the earth above him : the dead black 
Unending clammy night blinding his brain 
To a black blankness shot with scarlet streaks 
Of searing lightning; and he scarcely knew 
If he'd been crawling hours, or days, or weeks . . . 
And now the lightning glimmered faintly blue, 
And gradually the blackness paled to grey: 
And somewhere, far ahead, he caught the gleam 
Of light, daylight, the very light of day, 
Day, dazzling day! 

Thank God, it was no dream. 
He felt a cooler air upon his face; 
And scrambling madly for some moments more, 
Though centuries it seemed, he reached the place 
Where through the chinks of the old crumbling 

door 
Of a disused upcast-shaft, grey ghostly light 
Strained feebly, though it seemed the sun's own 

blaze 
To eyes so long accustomed to the night 
And peering blindly through that pitchy maze. 

The door dropped from its hinges — and upright 
He stood, at last, bewildered and adaze, 
In a strange dazzling world of flowering white. 
Plumed snowy fronds and delicate downy sprays, 
Fantastic as the feathery work of frost, 
Drooped round him from the wet walls of the 
shaft — 



10 



THE SHAFT 

A monstrous growth of mould, huge mould. And 

lost 
In wonder he stood gaping; and then laughed 
To see that living beauty— quietly 

He laughed to see it: and awhile forgot 
All danger. He would tell his mother: she 
Would scarce know whether to believe or not, — 
But laugh to hear how, when he came on it, 
It dazzled him. If she could only see 
That fluffy white — come on it from the pit, 
Snow-white as fantails' feathers, suddenly 
As he had, she'ld laugh too: she . . . 

Icy cold 
Shot shuddering through him, as he stept beneath 
A trickle. He looked up. That monstrous mould 
Frightened him ; and he stood with chattering teeth, 
Seeming to feel it growing over him 
Already, shutting out the fleck of sky 
That up the slimy shaft gleamed far and dim. 
'Twould flourish on his bones when he should lie 
Forgotten in the shaft. Its clammy breath 
Was choking him already. He would die, 
And no one know how he'd come by his death . . . 
Dank, cold mould growing slowly. By and by 
'Twould cover him; and not a soul to tell . . . 

With a wild cry he tried to scramble out, 
Clutching the wall . . . Mould covered him . . . 

He fell, 
As, close at hand, there came an answering shout. 



IN THE ORCHESTRA 

He'd played each night for months; and never heard 

A single tinkly tune, or caught a word 

Of all the silly songs and sillier jests; 

And he'd seen nothing, even in the rests, 

Of that huge audience piled from floor to ceiling 

Whose stacked white faces sent his dazed wits 

reeling . . . 
He'd been too happy; and had other things 
To think of while he scraped his fiddle-strings . . . 

But now, he'd nothing left to think about — 
Nothing he dared to think of . . . 

In and out 
The hollow fiddle of his head the notes 
Jingled and jangled; and the raucous throats 
Of every star rasped jibes into his ear, — 
Each separate syllable, precise and clear, 
As though 'twere life or death if he should miss 
A single cackle, crow or quack, or hiss 
Of cockadoodling fools . . . 

A week ago 
He'd sat beside her bed ; and heard her low 
Dear voice talk softly of her hopes and fears — 
Their hopes and fears; and every afternoon 
He'd watched her lying there . . . 

A fat buffoon 
In crimson trousers prancing, strut and cluck — 



IN THE ORCHESTRA 

Cackling: "A fellow never knows his luck. 

He never knows his luck. He never knows 

His luck." . . . And in and out. the old gag goes 

Of either ear, and in and out again, 

Playing at "You-can't-catch-me" through his 

brain — 
"Er knows his luck." . . . 

How well they thought they knew 
Their luck, and such a short while since, they two 
Together. Life was lucky: and 'twas good 
Then, to be fiddling for a livelihood — 
His livelihood and hers . . . 

A woman sang 
With grinning teeth. The whole house rocked and 

rang. 
In the whole house there was no empty place : 
And there were grinning teeth in every face 
Of all those faces, grinning, tier on tier, 
From orchestra to ceiling chandelier 
That caught in every prism a grinning light, 
As from the little black box up a height 
The changing limelight streamed down on the 

stage. 
And he was filled with reasonless, dull rage 
To see those grinning teeth, those grinning rows; 
And wondered if those lips would never close, 
But gape for ever through an endless night, 
Grinning and mowing in the green limelight. 

And now they seemed to grin in mockery 
Of him ; and then, as he turned suddenly 

13 



LIVELIHOOD 

To face them, flaming, it was his own face 

That mowed and grinned at him from every 

place — 
Grimacing on him with the set, white grin 
Of his own misery through that dazzling din . . . 
Yet, all the while he hadn't raised his head, 
But fiddled, fiddled for his daily bread, 
His livelihood — no longer hers . . . 

And now 
He heard no more the racket and the row, 
Nor saw the aching, glittering glare, nor smelt 
The smother of hot breaths and smoke — but felt 
A wet wind on his face . . . 

He sails again 
Home with her up the river in the rain — 
Leaving the grey domes and grey colonnades 
Of Greenwich in their wake as daylight fades — 
By huge dark cavernous wharves with flaring lights, 
Warehouses built for some mad London night's 
Fantastic entertainment, — grimmer far 
Than Baghdad dreamt of— monstrous and bizarre, 
They loom against the night; and seem to hold 
Preposterous secrets horrible and old, 
Behind black doors and windows. 

Yet even they 
Make magic with more mystery the way, 
As, hand in hand, they sail through the blue 

gloam 
Up the old river of enchantment, home . . . 



14 



IN THE ORCHESTRA 

He heard strange, strangled voices — he, alone 
Once more, — like voices through the telephone, 
Thin and unreal, inarticulate 
Twanging and clucking at terrific rate — 
Pattering, pattering . . . 

And again aware 
He grew of all the racket and the glare, 
Aware again of the antic strut and cluck — 
And there was poor old " Never-know-his-luck " 
Doing another turn — yet, not a smile, 
Although he'd changed his trousers and his 

style. 
The same old trousers and the same old wheeze 
Was what the audience liked. He tried to please, 
And knew he failed: and suddenly turned old 
Before those circling faces glum and cold — 
A fat old man with cracked voice piping thin, 
Trying to make those wooden faces grin, 
With frantic kicks and desperate wagging head, 
To win the applause that meant his daily bread — 
Gagging and prancing for a livelihood, 
His daily bread . . . 

God! how he understood! 
He'd fiddled for their livelihood — for her, 
And for the one who never came . . . 

A stir 
Upon the stage; and now another turn — 
The old star guttered out, too old to burn. 
And he remembered she had liked the chap 
When she'd been there that night. He'd seen her clap, 



*5 



LIVELIHOOD 

Laughing so merrily. She liked it all — 

The razzle-dazzle of the music-hall — 

And laughing faces . . . said she liked to see 

Hardworking people laughing heartily 

After the day's work. She liked everything — 

His playing, even! Snap . . . another string — 

The third! 

And she'd been happy in that place, 
Seeing a friendly face in every face. 
That was her way — the whole world was her friend. 
And she'd been happy, happy to the end, 
As happy as the day was long 

And he 
Fiddled on, dreaming of her quietly. 



16 



THE SWING 

'Twas jolly, swinging through the air, 
With young Dick Garland sitting there 
Tugging the rope with might and main, 
His round face flushed, his arms astrain, 
His laughing blue eyes shining bright, 
As they went swinging through the light- 
As they went swinging, ever higher 
Until it seemed that they came nigher 
At every swing to the blue sky — 
Until it seemed that by-and-by 
The boat would suddenly swing through 
That sunny dazzle of clear blue — 
And they, together . . . 

Yesterday 
She'd hardly thought she'ld get away: 
The mistress was that cross, and she 
Had only told her after tea 
That ere she left she must set to 
And turn the parlour out. She knew, 
Ay, well enough, that it meant more 
Than two hours' work. And so at four 
She'd risen that morn; and done it all 
Before her mistress went to call 
And batter at her bedroom door 
At six to rouse her. Such a floor, 
So hard to sweep; and all that brass 
To polish ! Any other lass 

i7 



LIVELIHOOD 

But her would have thrown up the place, 
And told the mistress to her face . . . 

But how could she! Her money meant 
So much to them at home. 'Twas spent 
So quickly, though so hard to earn. 
She'd got to keep her place, and learn 
To hold her tongue. Though it was hard, 
The little house in Skinner's Yard 
Must be kept going. She would rob 
The bairns if she should lose her job, 
And they'd go hungry . . . 

Since the night 
They'd brought home father, cold and white, 
Upon a stretcher, mother and she 
Had had to struggle ceaselessly 
To keep a home together at all. 
'Twas lucky she was big and tall 
And such a strong lass for fifteen. 
She couldn't think where they'ld have been 
If she'd not earned enough to feed 
And help to keep the bairns from need — 
Those five young hungry mouths . . . 

And she 
For one long day beside the sea 
Was having a rare holiday . . . 

'Twas queer that Dick should want to pay 
So much good money, hardly earned, 
To bring her with him . . . 



18 



THE SWING 

How it burned, 
That blazing sun in the blue sky ! 
And it was good to swing so high — 
So high into the burning blue, 
Until it seemed they'ld swing right through . . . 

And good just to be sitting there 
And watching Dick with tumbled hair 
And his red necktie floating free 
Against the blue of sky and sea, 
As up and down and up and down 
Beyond the low roofs of the town 
They swung and swung . . . 

And he was glad 
To pay for her, the foolish lad, 
And happy to be swinging there 
With her, and rushing through the air, 
So high into the burning blue 
It seemed that they would swing right through . 

'Twas well that she had caught the train, 
She'd had to run with might and main 
To catch it: and Dick waiting there 
With tickets ready . . . 

How his hair 
Shone in the sunshine, and the light 
Made his blue, laughing eyes so bright 
Whenever he looked up at her . . . 

She'ld like to sit, and never stir 
Again out of that easy seat — 



19 



LIVELIHOOD 

With no more mats to shake and beat 
And no more floors to sweep, no stairs 
To scrub, and no more heavy chairs 
To move — for she was sleepy now . . . 
Dick's hair had fallen over his brow 
Into his eyes. He shook them free, 
And laughed to her. 'Twas queer that he 
Should think it worth his while to pay, 
And give her such a holiday . . . 
But she was sleepy now. 'Twas rare, 
As they were rushing through the air 
To see Dick's blue eyes shining bright 
As they went swinging through the light, 
As they went swinging ever higher 
Until it seemed that they came nigher 
At every swing to that blue sky — 
Until it seemed that by-and-by 
Their boat would suddenly swing through 
That sunny dazzle of clear blue . . . 

If she could swing for evermore 
With Dick above that golden shore, 
With no more parlour-floors to sweep — 
If she could only swing and sleep . . . 
And wake to see Dick's eyes burn bright, 
To see them laughing with delight 
As suddenly they swung right through 
That sudden dazzle of clear blue — 
And they two, sailing on together 
For ever through that shining weather' 



20 



THE DROVE-ROAD 

'Twas going to snow — 'twas snowing! Curse his 

luck! 
And fifteen mile to travel — here was he 
With nothing but an empty pipe to suck, 
And half a flask of rum — but that would be 
More welcome later on. He'd had a drink 
Before he left; and that would keep him warm 
A tidy while: and 'twould be good to think 
He'd something to fall back on, if the storm 
Should come to much. You never knew with snow. 
A sup of rain he didn't mind at all, 
But snow was different with so far to go — 
Full fifteen mile, and not a house of call. 
Ay, snow was quite another story, quite — 
Snow on these fell-tops with a north-east wind 
Behind it, blowing steadily with a bite 
That made you feel that you were stark and 

skinned. 

And these poor beasts — and they just off the boat 

A day or so, and hardly used to land — 

Still dizzy with the sea, their wits afloat. 

When they first reached the dock, they scarce could 

stand, 
They'd been so joggled. It's gey bad to cross, 
After a long day's jolting in the train 
Thon Irish Channel, always pitch and toss — 

21 



LIVELIHOOD 

And heads or tails, not much for them to gain ! 
And then the market, and the throng and noise 
Of yapping dogs; and they stung mad with fear, 
Welted with switches by those senseless boys — 
He'ld like to dust their jackets! But 'twas queer, 
A beast's life, when you came to think of it 
From start to finish — queerer, ay, a lot 
Than any man's, and chancier a good bit. 
With his ash-sapling at their heels they'd got 
To travel before night those fifteen miles 
Of hard fell-road, against the driving snow, 
Half-blinded, on and on. He thought at whiles 
'Twas just as well for them they couldn't know . . . 

Though, as for that, 'twas little that he knew 
Himself what was in store for him. He took 
Things as they came. 'Twas all a man could do; 
And he'd kept going, somehow, by hook or crook. 
And here he was, with fifteen mile of fell, 
And snow, and . . . God, but it was blowing 

stiff! 
And no tobacco. Blest if he could tell 
Where he had lost it — but, for half a whiff 
He'ld swop the very jacket off his back — 
Not that he'ld miss the cobweb of old shreds 
That held the holes together. 

Thon Cheap- Jack 
Who'd sold it him had said it was Lord Ted's, 
And London cut. But Teddy had grown fat 
Since he'd been made an alderman . . . His bid? 
And did the gentleman not want a hat 



22 



THE DROVE- ROAD 

To go with it, a topper? If he did, 
Here was the very . . . 

Hell, but it was cold: 
And driving dark it was — nigh dark as night. 
He'ld almost think he must be getting old, 
To feel the wind so. And long out of sight 
The beasts had trotted. Well, what odds! The 

way 
Ran straight for ten miles on, and they'ld go 

straight. 
They'ld never heed a by-road. Many a day 
He'd had to trudge on, trusting them to fate, 
And always found them safe. They scamper fast, 
But in the end a man could walk them down. 
They're showy trotters; but they cannot last. 
He'ld race the fastest beast for half-a-crown 
On a day's journey. Beasts were never made 
For steady travelling; drive them twenty mile, 
And they were done ; while he was not afraid 
To tackle twice that distance with a smile. 

But not a day like this! He'd never felt 

A wind with such an edge. 'Twas like the blade 

Of the rasper in the pocket of his belt 

He kept for easy shaving. In his trade 

You'd oft to make your toilet under a dyke — 

And he was always one for a clean chin, 

And carried soap. 

He'd never felt the like — 
That wind, it cut clean through him to the skin. 
He might be mother-naked, walking bare, 

23 



LIVELIHOOD 

For all the use his clothes were, with the snow 
Half -blinding him, and clagging to his hair, 
And trickling down his spine. He'ld like to know 
What was the sense of pegging steadily, 
Chilled to the marrow, after a daft herd 
Of draggled beasts he couldn't even see! 

But that was him all over! Just a word, 
A nod, a wink, the price of half-and-half — 
And he'ld be setting out for God-knows-where, 
With no more notion than a yearling calf 
Where he would find himself when he got there. 
And he'd been travelling hard on sixty year 
The same old road, the same old giddy gait; 
And he'ld be walking, for a pint of beer, 
Into his coffin, one day, soon or late — 
But not with such a tempest in his teeth, 
Half -blinded and half-do thered, that he hoped! 
He'd met a sight of weather on the heath, 
But this beat all. 

'Twas worse than when he'd groped 
His way that evening down the Mallerstang — 
Thon was a blizzard, thon — and he was done, 
And almost dropping when he came a bang 
Against a house — slap-bang, and like to stun! — 
Though that just saved his senses — and right there 
He saw a lighted window he'd not seen, 
Although he'd nearly staggered through its glare 
Into a goodwife's kitchen, where she'd been 
Baking hot griddlecakes upon the peat. 
And he could taste them now, and feel the glow 

24 



THE DROVE-ROAD 

Of steady, aching, tingly, drowsy heat, 

As he sat there and let the caking snow 

Melt off his boots, staining the sanded floor. 

And that brown jug she took down from the 

shelf— 
And every time he'd finished, fetching more, 
And piping: "Now reach up, and help yourself!" 
She was a wonder, thon, the gay old wife — 
But no such luck this journey. Things like that 
Could hardly happen every day of life, 
Or no one would be dying, but the fat 
And oily undertakers, starved to death 
For want of custom . . . Hell! but he would soon 
Be giving them a job ... It caught your breath, 
That throttling wind. And it was not yet noon; 
And he'ld be travelling through it until dark. 
Dark! 'Twas already dark, and might be night 
For all that he could see . . . 

And not a spark 
Of comfort for him! Just to strike a light, 
And press the kindling shag down in the bowl, 
Keeping the flame well-shielded by his hand, 
And puff, and puff! He'ld give his very soul 
For half-a-pipe. He couldn't understand 
How he had come to lose it. He'd the rum — 
Ay, that was safe enough: but it would keep 
Awhile, you never knew what chance might come 
In such a storm . . . 

If he could only sleep . . . 
If he could only sleep . . . That rustling sound 
Of drifting snow, it made him sleepy-like — 



LIVELIHOOD 

Drowsy and dizzy, dithering round and round . . . 

If he could only curl up under a dyke, 

And sleep and sleep ... It dazzled him, that 
white, 

Drifting and drifting, round and round and 
round . . . 

Just half-a-moment's snooze . . . He'ld be all 
right. 

It made his head quite dizzy, that dry sound 

Of rustling snow. It made his head go round — 

That rustling in his ears . . . and drifting, drift- 
ing .. . 

If he could only sleep . . . he would sleep sound . . . 

God, he was nearly gone ! 

The storm was lifting; 

And he'd run into something soft and warm — 

Slap into his own beasts, and never knew. 

Huddled they were, bamboozled by the storm — 

And little wonder either, when it blew 

A blasted blizzard. Still, they'd got to go. 

They couldn't stand there snoozing until night. 

But they were sniffing something in the snow. 
'Twas that had stopped them, something big and 

white — 
A bundle — nay, a woman . . . and she slept. 
But it was death to sleep. 

He'd nearly dropt 
Asleep himself. 'Twas well that he had kept 
That rum; and lucky that the beasts had stopt. 



26 



THE DROVE-ROAD 



Ay, it was well that he had kept the rum. 
He liked his drink: but he had never cared 
For soaking by himself, and sitting mum. 
Even the best rum tasted better, shared. 



27 



THE ROCKLIGHT 

Ay, he must keep his mind clear — must not think 

Of those two lying dead, or he'ld go mad. 

The glitter on the lenses made him blink; 

The brass glared speckless: work was all he had 

To keep his mind clear. He must keep it clear 

And free of fancies, now that there was none, 

None left but him to light the lantern — near 

On fourteen hours yet till that blazing sun 

Should drop into that quiet oily sea, 

And he must light . . . though it was not his turn: 

'Twas Jacob's, — Jacob, lying quietly 

Upon his bed . . . And yet the light would burn 

And flash across the darkness just as though 

Nothing had happened, white and innocent, 

As if Jake's hand had lit it. None would know, 

No seaman steering by it, what it meant 

To him, since he'd seen Jacob . . . 

But that way 
Lay madness. He, at least, must keep his wits; 
Or there'ld be none to tell why those two lay . . . 
He must keep working, or he'ld go to bits. 

Ere sunset, he must wind the lantern up. 
He'ld like to wind it now — but 'twould go round, 
And he'ld be fancying . . . Neither bite nor sup 
He'd touched this morning; and the clicking sound 
Would set his light head fancying . . . Jacob wound 

28 



THE ROCKLIGHT 

So madly that last time, before . . . But he, 
He mustn't think of Jacob. He was bound, 
In duty bound, to keep his own wits free 
And clear of fancies. 

He would think of home. 
That thought would keep him whole, when all else 

failed — 
The green door; and the doorstep, white as foam; 
The window that blazed bright the night he sailed 
Out of the moonlit harbour, — clean and gay 
'Twould shine this morning in the sun, with white 
Dimity curtains, and a grand display 
Of red geraniums, glowing in the light. 
He always liked geraniums: such a red — 
It put a heart in you. His mother, too, 
She liked . . . 

And she'ld be lying still in bed, 
And never dreaming! If she only knew ! 
But he, . . . he mustn't think of them just now — 
Must keep off fancies . . . 

She'ld be lying there, 
Sleeping so quietly — her smooth white brow 
So calm beneath the wisps of silver hair 
Slipped out beneath her mutch-frills. She had pride 
In those fine caps, and ironed them herself. 
The very morning that his father'd died, 
Drowned in the harbour, turning to the shelf, 
She took her iron down, without a word, 
And ironed, with her husband lying dead . . . 
As they were lying now . . . He never heard 
Her speak, or saw her look towards the bed. 
29 



LIVELIHOOD 

She ironed, ironed. He had thought it queer — 
The little shivering lad perched in his chair, 
And hungry — though he dared not speak for fear 
His father'ld wake, and with wet streaming hair 
Would rise up from the bed . . . 

He'd thought it strange 
Then, but he understood now, understood. 
You'd got to work, or let your fancies range; 
And fancies played the devil when they could. 
They got the upper hand, if you loosed grip 
A moment. Iron frills, or polish brass 
To keep a hold upon yourself, not slip 
As Jacob slipt . . . 

A very burning-glass 
Those lenses were. He'ld have to drop off soon, 
And find another job to fill the morn, 
And keep him going through the afternoon — 
And it was not yet five! . . . 

Ay, he was born 
In the very bed where still his mother slept, 
And where his father'd lain — a cupboard bed 
Let in the wall, more like a bunk, and kept 
Decent with curtains drawn from foot to head 
By day, though why — but 'twas the women's way: 
They always liked things tidy. They were right — 
Better to keep things tidy through the day, 
Or there would be the devil's mess by night. 
He liked things shipshape, too, himself. He took 
After his mother in more ways than one. 



3° 



THE ROCKLIGHT 

He'ld say this for her — she could never brook 
A sloven; and she'd made a tidy son. 

'Twas well for him that he was tidy, now 

That he was left; or how'ld he ever keep 

His thoughts in hand . . . The Lord alone knew 

how 
He'ld keep them tidy, till . . . 

Yet, she could sleep: 
And he was glad, ay, glad that she slept sound. 
It did him good, to think of her so still. 
It kept his thoughts from running round and round 
Like Jacob in the lighted lantern, till . . . 
God! They were breaking loose! He must keep 

hold . . . 

On one side, "Albert Edward, Prince of Wales," 

Framed in cut cork, painted to look like gold — 

On the other a red frigate, with white sails 

Bellying, and a blue pennon fluttering free, 

Upon a sea dead calm. He couldn't think, 

As a wee lad, how ever this could be. 

And when he'd asked, his father with a wink 

Had only answered laughing: Little chaps 

Might think they knew a lot, and had sharp eyes. 

But only pigs could see the wind. Perhaps 

The painter'd no pig by him to advise. 

That was his father's way: he'ld always jest, 
And chuckle in his beard, with eyes half-shut 



3i 



LIVELIHOOD 

And twinkling . . . Strange to think of them at 

rest 
And lightless, those blue eyes, beneath that cut 
Where the jagged rock had gashed his brow — the 

day 
His wife kept ironing those snowy frills, 
To keep herself from thinking how he lay, 
And wouldn't jest again. It's that that kills — 
The thinking over . . . 

Jacob jested, too: 
He'd always some new game, was full of chaff. 
The very morn before the lantern drew . . . 
Yesterday morn that was, he heard him laugh . . . 

Yesterday morn ! And was it just last night 
He'd wakened, startled; and run out, to find 
Jacob within the lantern, round the light 
Fluttering like a moth, naked and blind 
And laughing . . . Peter staring, turned to 

stone . . . 
The struggle . . . Peter killed . . . 

And he must keep 
His mind clear at all costs, himself, alone 
On that grey naked rock of the great deep, 
Full forty mile from shore — where there were men 
Alive and breathing at this moment — ay, 
Men who were deep in slumber even then, 
And yet would waken and look on the sky. 

He must keep his mind clear, to light the lamp 
Ere sunset: ay, and clear the long night through 

32 



THE ROCKLIGHT 

To tell how they had died. He mustn't scamp 
The truth — and yet 'twas little that he knew . . . 
What had come over Jacob in the night 
To send him mad and stripping himself bare . . . 
And how he'd ever climbed into the light — 
And it revolving . . . and the heat and glare! 
No wonder he'd gone blind — the lenses burning 
And blazing round him; and in each he'ld see 
A little naked self . . . and turning, turning, 
Till, blinded, scorched, and laughing crazily, 
He'd dropped: and Peter . . . Peter might have 

known 
The truth, if he had lived to tell the tale — 
But Peter'd tripped . . . and he was left 

alone . . . 

Just thirty hours till he should see the sail 
Bringing them food and letters — food for them; 
Letters from home for them . . . and here was he 
Shuddering like a boat from stern to stem 
When a wave takes it broadside suddenly. 
He must keep his mind clear . . . 

His mother lay 
Peacefully slumbering. And she, poor soul, 
Had kept her mind clear, ironing that day — 
Had kept her wits about her, sound and whole — 
And for his sake. Ay, where would he have been, 
If she had let her fancies have their way 
That morning, having seen what she had seen! 
He'd thought it queer . . . But it was no child's 
play 

33 



LIVELIHOOD 

Keeping the upper hand of your own wits. 

He knew that now. If only for her sake. 

He mustn't let his fancies champ their bits 

Until they foamed . . . He must jam on the brake 

Or he . . . 

He must think how his mother slept; 
How soon she would be getting out of bed; 
Would dress; and breakfast by the window, kept 
So lively with geraniums blazing red; 
Would open the green door, and wash the stone, 
Foam- white enough already: then, maybe, 
She'ld take her iron down, and, all alone, 
Would iron, iron, iron steadily — 
Keeping her fancies quiet, till he came . . . 

To-morrow, he'ld be home: he'ld see the white 
Welcoming threshold, and the window's flame, 
And her grave eyes kindling with kindly light. 



34 



THE PLOUGH 

He sniffed the clean and eager smell 

Of crushed wild garlic, as he thrust 

Beneath the sallows: and a spell 

He stood there munching a thick crust — 

The fresh tang giving keener zest 

To bread and cheese — and watched a pair 

Of wagtails preening wing and breast, 

Then running — flirting tails in air, 

And pied plumes sleeked to silky sheen — 

Chasing each other in and out 

The wet wild garlic's white and green. 

And then remembering, with a shout, 
And rattle whirring, he ran back 
Again into the Fair Maid's Mead, 
To scare the rascal thieves and black 
That flocked from far and near to feed 
Upon the sprouting grain. As one 
They rose with clapping rustling wings — 
Rooks, starlings, pigeons, in the sun 
Circling about him in wide rings, 
And plovers hovering over him 
In mazy, interweaving flight — 
Until it made his young wits swim 
To see them up against the light, 
A dazzling dance of black and white 
Against the clear blue April sky — 
Wings on wings in flashing flight 
Swooping low and soaring high — 

3S 



LIVELIHOOD 

Swooping, soaring, fluttering, flapping, 

Tossing, tumbling, swerving, dipping, 

Chattering, cawing, creaking, clapping, 

Till he felt his senses slipping — 

And gripped his corncrake rattle tight, 

And flourished it above his head 

Till every bird was out of sight: 

And laughed, when all had flown and fled, 

To think that he, and all alone, 

Could put so many thieves to rout. 

Then sitting down upon a stone 
He wondered if the school were out — 
The school where, only yesterday, 
He'd sat at work among his mates — 
At work that now seemed children's play, 
With pens and pencils, books and slates — 
Although he'd liked it well enough, 
The hum and scuffling of the school, 
And hadn't cared when Grim-and- Gruff 
Would call him dunderhead and fool. 

And he could see them sitting there — 
His class-mates, in the lime-washed room, 
With fingers inked and towzled hair — 
Bill Baxter with red cheeks abloom, 
And bright black eyes; and Ginger Jim 
With freckled face and solemn look, 
Who'ld wink a pale blue eye at him, 
Then sit intent upon his book, 
While, caught a-giggle, he was caned. 

36 



THE PLOUGH 

He'd liked that room, he'd liked it all — 
The window steaming when it rained; 
The sunlight dancing on the wall 
Among the glossy charts and maps; 
The blotchy stain beside the clock 
That only he of all the chaps 
Knew for a chart of Dead Man's Rock 
That lies in Tiger Island Bay — 
The reef on which the schooners split 
And founder, that would bear away 
The treasure-chest of Cut-Throat-Kit, 
That's buried under Black Bill's bones 
Beneath the purple pepper- tree . . . 
A trail of clean-sucked cherry-stones, 
Which you must follow carefully, 
Across the dunes of yellow sand 
Leads winding upward from the beach 
Till, with a pistol in each hand, 
And cutlass 'twixt your teeth, you reach 

Plumping their fat crops peacefully 

Were plovers, pigeons, starlings, rooks, 

Feeding on every side while he 

Was in the land of storybooks. 

He raised his rattle with a shout 

And scattered them with yell and crake . 

A man must mind what he's about 

And keep his silly wits awake, 

Not go woolgathering, if he'ld earn 

His wage. And soon, no schoolboy now, 

He'ld take on a man's job, and learn 

37 



LIVELIHOOD 

To build a rick, and drive the plough, 
Like father . . . 

Up against the sky 
Beyond the spinney and the stream, 
With easy stride and steady eye 
He saw his father drive his team, 
Turning the red marl gleaming wet 
Into long furrows clean and true. 
And dreaming there, he longed to set 
His young hand to the ploughshare too. 



38 



THE OLD PIPER 

With ears undulled of age, all night he heard 
The April singing of the Otterburn. 
His wife slept quietly and never stirred, 
Though he was restless and must toss and turn — 
But she kept going all the day, while he 
Was just a useless bundle in a chair, 
And couldn't do a hand's turn — seventy-three, 
And crippled with rheumatics . . . 

It was rare, 
Hearing the curlew piping in the dark! 
'Twas queer he'd got his hearing still so keen. 
He'ld be so bothered if he couldn't hark 
To curlew piping, shrill and clear and clean — 
Ay, clean, that note! 

His piping days were done, 
His fingers numb and stiff. And by the peat 
All winter, or all summer in the sun, 
He'ld sit beside the threshold, in his seat, 
Day-long, and listen to the Otterburn 
That sang each day and night a different tune. 
It knew more airs than he could ever learn 
Upon the small-pipes. January to June, 
And June to January, every hour 
It changed its music. Now 'twas shrilling clear 
In a high tinkling treble with a power 
Of mellow undertones. And to his ear 
Even the spates of winter over stones 

39 



LIVELIHOOD 

Made no dull tuneless thundering; he heard 
No single roar, but half a hundred tones 
Eddying and swirling; blending, yet unblurred; 
No dull-edged note, but each one razor-keen — 
Though supple as the sword-blades interlaced 
Over the morris-dancers' heads — and clean! 
But, nay, there was no word for it. 'Twas waste 
Of breath to try and put the thing in words, 
Though on his pipes he'ld get the sense of it, 
The feel — ay, even of the calls of birds 
He'ld get some notion, though low-toned a bit — 
His humming drone had not that quality 
Of clean-cut piping. Any shepherd lad 
Upon his penny-whistle easily 
Could mimic the mere notes. And yet he had 
A gift of feeling, somehow . . . He must try 
To-morrow if he couldn't tune his pipes, 
Must get his wife to strap them carefully . . . 
Hark, a new note among the birds — a snipe's — 
A small-pipe's note! . . . 

Drowsing, he did not wake 
Until his wife was stirring. 

Nor till noon 
He told her that he'd half-a-mind to take 
His pipes and see if he could turn a tune 
If she would fetch them. And regretfully 
She brought the pipes and strapped them on and set 
The bellows under his arm, and patiently 
She held the reeds to his numb fingers. Yet 
She knew 'twas worse than useless. Work and 
years 

40 



THE OLD PIPER 

Had dulled that lively touch: each joint was stiff 
And swollen with rheumatics . . . 

Slowly tears 
Ran down his weathered cheeks . . . 

And then a whiff 
Of peat- reek filled his nostrils: and quite still 
He sat remembering. Memory was kind 
And stript age off him. 

And along the hill 
By Golden Pots he strove against the wind — 
In all his days he never again had known 
A wind like thon — on that November day. 
For every step that he took forward, blown 
Half-a-step backward, slowly he made way 
Against it, buffeted and battered numb, 
Chilled to the marrow, till he reached his door, 
To find Jack Dodd, the pitman piper, come 
To play a contest with him . . . 

Nevermore 
There'ld be such piping! 

Ay, Jack Dodd had heard 
That he could play — that up among the hills 
There was a lad could pipe like any bird, 
With half-a-hundred fancy turns and trills, 
And give a lead even to Jack himself, 
Jack Dodd, the pitmen's champion! 

After tea 
When they had smoked a while, down from the 

shelf 
He'd reached his own small-pipes; and speedily 
They two were at it, playing, tune for tune, 

41 



LIVELIHOOD 

Against each other all the winter's night, 
And all next morning till the stroke of noon, 
Piping out bravely all their hearts' delight. 

He still could see Jack, sitting there, so lean, 
Long-backed, broad-shouldered, stooping and white- 
faced 
With cropped black head, and black eyes burning 

keen; 
Tight-lipped, yet smiling gravely: round his waist 
His small-pipes strapped, the bellows 'neath his arm, 
His nimble fingers lively at the reeds, — 
His body swaying to the lilting charm 
Of his own magic piping, till great beads 
Of sweat were glistening on his low, white brow. 

And he himself, a herd-lad, yellow-haired, 
With wide eyes even bluer then than now, 
Who sat bolt-upright in his chair and stared 
Before him at the steady glowing peat 
As though each note he played he caught in flight 
From the loud wind, and in the quivering heat 
Could see it dancing to its own delight. 

All night the rafters hummed with piping airs, 
And candle after candle guttered out; 
But not a footstep climbed the creaking stairs 
To the dark bedrooms. Turn and turn about, 
They piped or listened; while the wind without 
Roared round the steading, battering at the door 
As though to burst it wide; then with a shout 
Swept on across the pitchy leagues of moor. 

42 



THE OLD PIPER 

Pitman and shepherd piping turn for turn, 

The airs they loved, till to the melody 

Their pulses beat; and their rapt eyes would burn 

Thrilled with the sight that each most loved to 

see — 
The pitman, gazing down a gallery 
Of glittering black coal, an endless seam: 
And through his piping stole the mystery 
Of subterranean waters, and of dream 
Corridors dwindling everlastingly. 

The shepherd, from the top of Windy Gile 

Looking o'er range on range of glowing hills, 

A world beneath him, stretching, mile on mile, 

Brown bent and heather, laced by flashing rills, — 

His body flooded with the light that fills 

The veins with running gold. And April light 

And wind, and all the melody that spills 

From tumbling waters, thrilled his pipes that night. 

Ay, thon was playing, thon! And nevermore 
The world would hear such piping. Jack was dead, 
And he, so old and broken. 

By the door 
All day he sat remembering; and in bed 
He lay beside his sleeping wife all night, 
Too spent, too weary, even to toss and turn. 
Dawn found him lying, strangely cold and white, 
As though still listening to the Otterburn. 



43 



THE NEWS 

The buzzer boomed, and instantly the clang 
Of hammers dropt, just as the fendered bow 
Bumped with soft splash against the wharf,- 

though now 
Again within the Yard a hammer rang — 
A solitary hammer striking steel 
Somewhere aloft — and strangely, stridently 
Echoed as though it struck the steely sky 
The low, cold, steely sky. 

She seemed to feel 
That hammer in her heart — blow after blow 
In a strange clanging hollow seemed to strike 
Monotonous, unrelenting, cruel-like — 
Her heart that such a little while ago 
Had been so full, so happy with its news 
Scarce uttered even to itself. 

It stopt, 
That dreadful hammer. And the silence dropt 
Again a moment. Then a clatter of shoes 
And murmur of voices as the men trooped out: 
And as each wife with basket and hot can 
Hurried towards the gate to meet her man, 
She too ran forward, and then stood in doubt 
Because among them all she could not see 
The face that usually was first of all 
To meet her eyes. 

44 



THE NEWS 

Against the grimy wall 
That towered black above her to the sky, 
With trembling knuckles to the cold stone pressed 
Till the grit seemed to cut into the bone, 
And her stretched arm to shake the solid stone, 
She stood, and strove to calm her troubled 

breast — 
Her breast, whose trouble of strange happiness 
So sweet and so miraculous, as she 
Had stood among the chattering company 
Upon the ferry-boat, to strange distress 
Was changed. An unknown terror seemed to lie 
For her, behind that wall, so cold and hard 
And black above her, in the unseen Yard, 
Dreadfully quiet now. Then with a sigh 
Of glad relief she ran towards the gate 
As he came slowly out, the last of all. 

The terror of the hammer and the wall 
Fell from her as, a woman to her mate, 
She moved with happy heart and smile of greet- 
ing— 
A young and happy wife whose only thought 
Was whether he would like the food she'd brought — 
Whose one desire, to watch her husband eat- 
ing. 

With a grave smile he took his bait from her, 
And then without a word they moved away 
To where some grimy baulks of timber lay 
Beside the river, and 'twas quieter 

45 



LIVELIHOOD 

Than in the crowd of munching, squatting men 
And chattering wives and children. As he eat 
With absent eyes upon the river set, 
She chattered, too, a little now and then 
Of household happenings : and then silently 
They sat and watched the grimy-flowing stream, 
Dazed by the stunning din of hissing steam 
Escaping from an anchored boat hard-by, 
Each busy with their own thoughts, who till now 
Had shared each thought, each feeling, speaking 

out 
Easily, eagerly, without a doubt, 
As happy innocent children, anyhow, 
The innermost secrets of their wedded life. 
So as the dinner hour went swiftly by 
They sat there for the first time, troubled, shy — 
A silent husband and a silent wife. 

But she was only troubled by excess 

Of happiness ; and as she watched the stream, 

She looked upon her life as in a dream, 

Recalling all its tale of happiness 

Unbroken and unshadowed since she'd met 

Her man the first time, eighteen months ago . . . 

A keen blue day with sudden flaws of snow 
And sudden sunshine, when she first had set 
Her wondering eyes upon him — gaily clad 
For football in a jersey green and red, 
Knees bare beneath white shorts, his curly head 
Wind-blown and wet, — and knew him for her lad. 

46 



THE NEWS 

He strode towards her down the windy street — 
The wet grey pavements flashing sudden gold, 
And gold the unending coils of smoke that rolled 
Unceasingly overhead, fired by a fleet 
Wild glint of glancing sunlight. On he came 
Beside her brother — still a raw uncouth 
Young hobbledehoy — a strapping mettled youth 
In the first pride of manhood, that wild flame 
Touching his hair to fire, his cheeks aglow 
With the sharp stinging wind, his arms aswing: 
And as she watched, she felt the tingling sting 
Of flying flakes, and in a whirl of snow 
A moment he was hidden from her sight. 
It passed, and then before she was aware, 
With white flakes powdering his ruddy hair 
He stood before her, laughing in the light, 
In all his bravery of red and green 
Snow-sprinkled; and she laughed, too. In the 

sun 
They laughed : and in that laughter they were one. 

Now as with kindled eyes on the unseen 

Grey river she sat gazing, she again 

Lived through that moment in a golden dream . . . 

And then quite suddenly she saw the stream 

Distinct in its cold grimy flowing — then 

The present with its deeper happiness 

Thrilled her afresh — this wonder strange and 

new — 
This dream in her young body coming true, 
Incredible, yet certain none-the-less — 

47 



LIVELIHOOD 

This news, scarce broken to herself, that she 
Must break to him. She longed to see his eyes 
Kindle to hear it, happy with surprise 
When she should break it to him presently. 

But she must wait a while yet. Still too strange, 
Too wonderful for words, she could not share 
Even with him her secret. He sat there 
So quietly, little dreaming of the change 
That had come over her — but when he knew! 
For he was always one for bairns, was John, 
And this would be his own, their own. There shone 
A strange new light on all since this was true, 
All, all seemed strange, the river and the shore, 
The barges and the wharves with timber piled, 
And all her world familiar from a child, 
Was as a world she'd never seen before. 

And he, too, sat with eyes upon the stream 
Remembering that day when first the light 
Of her young eyes with laughter sparkling bright 
Kindled to his; and as he caught the gleam 
The life within him quickened suddenly 
To fire, and in a world of golden laughter 
They stood alone together: and then after, 
When he was playing with his mates and he 
Hurtled headlong towards the goal, he knew 
Her eyes were on him ; and for her alone, 
Who had the merriest eyes he'd ever known, 
He played that afternoon. Though until then 
He'd only played to please himself, somehow 
She seemed to have a hold upon him, now. 

48 



THE NEWS 

No longer a boy, a man among grown men, 
He'ld never have a thought apart from her, 
From her, his mate . . . 

And then that golden night 
When in a whirl of melody and light, 
Her merry brown eyes flashing merrier, 
They rode together in a gilded car 
That seemed to roll for ever round and round 
In a blind blaze of light and blare of sound, 
For ever and for ever, till afar 
It seemed to bear them from the surging throng 
Of lads and lasses happy in release 
From the week's work in yards and factories — 
For ever through a land of light and song 
While they sat, rapt in silence, hand in hand, 
And looked into each other's merry eyes, 
They two, together, whirled through Paradise, 
A golden glittering, unearthly land, 
A land where light and melody were one, 
And melody and light, a golden fire 
That ran through their young bodies, and desire, 
A golden music streaming from the sun, 
Filling their veins with golden melody 
And singing fire . . . 

And then when quiet fell, 
And they together, with so much to tell, 
So much to tell each other instantly, 
Left the hot throng and roar and glare behind 
Seeking the darker streets, and stood at last 
In a dark lane where footsteps seldom passed, 
Lit by a far lamp and one glowing blind 

49 



LIVELIHOOD 

That seemed to make the darkness yet more 

dark 
Between the cliffs of houses, black and high, 
That soared above them to the starry sky, 
A deep blue sky where spark on fiery spark 
The stars for them were kindled, as they raised 
Their eyes in new-born wonder to the night : 
And in a solitude of cold starlight 
They stood alone together, hushed, and gazed 
Into each other's eyes until speech came: 
And underneath the stars they talked and 

talked . . . 

Then he remembered how they two had walked 

Along a beach that was one golden flame 

Of yellow sand beside a flame-blue sea 

The day they wedded, that strange day of dream, 

One flame of blue and gold . . . 

The murky stream 
Flowed once again before his eyes, and he 
Dropt back into the present; and he knew 
That he must break the news that suddenly 
Had come to him last night as drowsily 
He lay beside her — startling, stern and true 
Out of the darkness flashing. He must tell 
How, as he lay beside her in the night 
His heart had told him he must go and fight, 
Must throw up everything he loved so well 
To go and fight in lands across the sea 
Beside the other lads — must throw up all, 
His work, his home . . . 
5° 



THE NEWS 

The shadow of the wall 
Fell on her once again, and stridently 
That hammer struck her heart, as from the stream 
She raised her eyes to his, and saw their flame. — 
Then back into her heart her glad news came 
As John smiled on her; and her golden dream 
Once more was all about her as she thought 
Of home, the new home that the future held 
For them — they three together. Fear was quelled 
By this new happiness that all unsought 
Had sprung from the old happiness . . . 

And he 
Watching her, thought of home, too. When he 

stept 
With her across the threshold first, and slept 
That first night in her arms so quietly, 
For the first time in all his life he'd known 
All that home meant, or nearly all — for yet 
Each night brought him new knowledge as she 

met 
Him, smiling on the clean white threshold-stone 
When he returned from labour in the Yard . . . 

And she'ld be waiting for him soon, while he 
Was fighting with his fellows oversea — 
She would be waiting for him . . . 

It was hard 
For him that he must go, as go he must, 
But harder far for her: things always fell 
Harder upon the women. It was well 
She didn't dream yet ... He could only trust 

5i 



LIVELIHOOD 

She, too, would feel that he had got to go, 

Then 'twould not be so hard to go, and yet . . . 

Dreaming, he saw the lamplit table, set 

With silver pot and cups and plates aglow 

For tea in their own kitchen bright and snug, 

With her behind the tea-pot — saw it all, 

The coloured calendars upon the wall, 

The bright fire-irons, and the gay hearthrug 

She'd made herself from gaudy rags; his place 

Awaiting him, with something hot-and-hot — 

His favourite sausages as like as not, 

Between two plates for him — as, with clean 

face 
Glowing from washing in the scullery, 
And such a hunger on him, he would sink 
Content into his chair . . . 

'Twas strange to think 
All this was over, and so suddenly, — 
'Twas strange, and hard . . . 

Still gazing on the stream, 
Her thoughts, too, were at home. She heard the 

patter 
Of tiny feet beside her, and the chatter 
Of little tongues . . . 

Then loudly through their dream 
The buzzer boomed : and all about them rose 
The men and women : soon the wives were on 
The ferry-boat, now puffing to be gone : 
The husbands hurrying, ere the gates should 

close, 
Back to the Yard . . . 

52 



THE NEWS 



She, in her dream of gold, 
And he, in his new desolation, stood; 
Then soberly, as wife and husband should, 
They parted, with their news as yet untold. 



53 



DAFFODILS 

He liked the daffodils. He liked to see 
Them nodding in the hedgerows cheerily 
Along the dusty lanes as he went by — 
Nodding and laughing to a fellow — Ay, 
Nodding and laughing till you'ld almost think 
They, too, enjoyed the jest. 

Without a wink 
That solemn butler said it, calm and smug, 
Deep- voiced as though he talked into a jug: 
"His lordship says he won't require no more 
Crocks rivetted or mended till the war 
Is over." 

Lord! He'd asked to have a wire 
The moment that his lordship should desire 
To celebrate the occasion fittingly 
By a wild burst of mending crockery 
Like a true Englishman, and hang expense! 
He'd had to ask it, though he'd too much sense 
To lift a lash or breathe a word before 
His lordship's lordship closed the heavy door. 
And then he'd laughed. Lord ! but it did him good 
That quiet laugh. And somewhere in the wood 
Behind the Hall there, a woodpecker laughed 
Right out aloud as though he'd gone clean daft — 



54 



DAFFODILS 

Right out aloud he laughed, the brazen bird, 
As if he didn't care a straw who heard — 
But then he'd not his daily bread to earn 
By mending crocks. 

And now at every turn 
The daffodils are laughing quietly 
Nodding and laughing to themselves, as he 
Chuckled: Now there's a patriot, real true-blue! 

It seemed the daffodils enjoyed it too — 
The fun of it. He wished that he could see — 
Old solemn-mug — them laughing quietly 
At him. But then, he'ld never have a dim 
Idea they laughed, and, least of all, at him. 
He'ld never dream they could be laughing at 
A butler. 

'Twould be good to see the fat 
Old peach-cheek in his solemn black and starch 
Parading in his pompous parlour-march 
Across that field of laughing daffodils. 
'Twould be a sight to make you skip up hills, 
Ay, crutch and all, and never feel your pack, 
To see a butler in his starch and black 
Among the daffodils, ridiculous 
As that old bubbly-jock with strut and fuss — 
Though that was rather rough upon the bird! 
For all his pride, he didn't look absurd 
Among the flowers — nor even that black sow 
Grunting and grubbing in among them now. 

And he was glad he hadn't got a trade 
That starched the mother-wit in you, and made 
55 



LIVELIHOOD 

A man look silly in a field of flowers. 

'Twas better mending crocks, although for hours 

You hobbled on — ay! and, maybe for days — 

Hungry and cold along the muddy ways 

Without a job. And even when the sun 

Was shining, 'twas not altogether fun 

To lose the chance of earning a few pence 

In these days: though 'twas well he'd got the 

sense 
To see the funny side of things. It cost 
You nothing, laughing to yourself. You lost 
Far more by going fiddle-faced through life 
Looking for trouble. 

He would tell his wife 
When he got home. But lord, she'ld never see 
What tickled him so mightily, not she ! 
She'ld only look up puzzled-like, and say 
She didn't wonder at his lordship. Nay, 
With tripe and trotters at the price they were 
You'd got to count your coppers and take care 
Of every farthing. 

Jack would see the fun — 
Ay, Jack would see the joke. Jack was his son — 
The youngest of the lot. And, man-alive, 
'Twas queer that only one of all the five 
Had got a twinkle in him — all the rest 
Dull as ditchwater to the merriest jest. 
Good lads enough they were, their mother's sons; 
And they'd all pluck enough to face the guns 
Out at the front. They'd got their mother's pluck: 
And he was proud of them, and wished them luck. 

56 



DAFFODILS 

That was no laughing matter — though 'twas well 

Maybe if you could crack a joke in hell 

And shame the devil. Jack, at least, would 

fight 
As well as any though his heart was light. 
Jack was the boy for fighting and for fun; 
And he was glad to think he'd got a son 
Who, even facing bloody death, would see 
That little joke about the crockery, 
And chuckle as he charged. 

His thoughts dropped back 
Through eighteen years; and he again saw Jack 
At the old home beneath the Malvern hills, 
A little fellow plucking daffodils, 
A little fellow who could scarcely walk, 
Yet chuckling as he snapped each juicy stalk 
And held up every yellow bloom to smell, 
Poking his tiny nose into the bell 
And sniffing its fresh scent, and chuckling still 
As though he'd secrets with each daffodil. 
Ay, he could see again the little fellow 
In his blue frock among that laughing yellow, 
And plovers in their sheeny black and white 
Flirting and tumbling in the morning light 
About his curly head. He still could see, 
Shutting his eyes, as plain as plain could be, 
Drift upon drift, those long-dead daffodils 
Against the far green of the Malvern hills, 
Nodding and laughing round his little lad, 
As if to see him happy made them glad — 
Nodding and laughing . . . 

57 



LIVELIHOOD 

They were nodding now, 
The daffodils, and laughing — yet, somehow, 
They didn't seem so merry now . . . 

And he 
Was fighting in a bloody trench maybe 
For very life this minute . . . 

They missed Jack, 
And he would give them all to have him back. 



58 



BETWEEN THE LINES 

When consciousness came back, he found he lay 
Between the opposing fires, but could not tell 
On which hand were his friends; and either way 
For him to turn was chancy — bullet and shell 
Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare 
Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind 

day. 
He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, 
Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, 
And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped 
At random in a turnip-field between 
The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped 
Through that unending battle of unseen 
Dead-locked league-stretching armies; and quite 

spent 
He rolled upon his back within the pit, 
And lay secure, thinking of all it meant — 
His lying in that little hole, sore hit, 
But living, while across the starry sky 
Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead— 
Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie 
Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed . . . 

If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, 
Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, 
And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, 
Too tired to fold them neatly on a chair 

59 



LIVELIHOOD 

The way his mother'd taught him — too dog-tired 
After the long day's serving in the shop, 
Inquiring what each customer required, 
Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . . 

And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, 
He hadn't had his clothes off; and had lain 
In muddy trenches, napping like a beast 
With one eye open, under sun and rain 
And that unceasing hell-fire . . . 

It was strange 
How things turned out — the chances! You'd just 

got 
To take your luck in life, you couldn't change 
Your luck. 

And so here he was lying shot 
Who just six months ago had thought to spend 
His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps . . . 
And now, God only knew how he would end ! 

He'ld like to know how many of the chaps 
Had won back to the trench alive, when he 
Had fallen wounded and been left for dead, 
If any! . . . 

This was different, certainly, 
From selling knots of tape and reels of thread 
And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots 
Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, 
Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got's" 
And "Do you keep's," till there seemed no escape 
From everlasting serving in a shop, 
Inquiring what each customer required, 

60 



BETWEEN THE LINES 

Politely talking weather, fit to drop, 
With swollen ankles, tired . . . 

But he was tired 
Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached 
For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench — 
Just duller when he slept than when he waked — 
Crouching for shelter from the steady drench 
Of shell and shrapnel . . . 

That old trench, it seemed 
Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed 
And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed 
And shells went whining harmless overhead — 
Harmless, at least, as far as he . . . 

But Dick- 
Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, 
At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick 
Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, 
And brought them butter in a lordly dish — 
Butter enough for all, and held it high, 
Yellow and fresh and clean as you could wish — 
When plump upon the plate from out the sky 
A shell fell bursting . . . Where the butter went, 
God only knew ! . . . 

And Dick ... He dared not think 
Of what had come to Dick ... or what it meant — 
The shrieking and the whistling and the stink 
He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'Twas 

luck 
That he still lived . . . And queer how little then 
He seemed to care that Dick . . . Perhaps 'twas 

pluck 

61 



LIVELIHOOD 

That hardened him — a man among the men — 
Perhaps . . . Yet, only think things out a bit, 
And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk ! 
And he'd liked Dick . . . and yet when Dick was 

hit, 
He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk 
He should have thought would feel it when his 

mate 
Was blown to smithereens — Dick, proud as punch, 
Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate — 
But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, 
Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. 

Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let 
His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. 
He dared not now, though he could not forget. 

Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas 

luck 
From first to last; and you'd just got to trust 
Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck 
As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must, 
And better to die grinning . . . 

Quiet now 
Had fallen on the night. On either hand 
The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow 
The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned 
The starry sky. He'd never seen before 
So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known 
That there were stars, somehow before the war 
He'd never realised them — so thick-sown, 

62 



BETWEEN THE LINES 

Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, 
Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights 
Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, 
You didn't see much but the city lights. 
He'd never in his life seen so much sky- 
As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer 
The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try 
To count the stars — they shone so bright and 

clear. 
One, two, three, four . . . Ah, God, but he was 

tired . . . 
Five, six, seven, eight . . . 

Yes: it was number eight. 
And what was the next thing that she required? 
(Too bad of customers to come so late, 
At closing-time !) Again within the shop 
He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, 
Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . . 

When once again the whole sky overhead 

Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of 

shell 
And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily 
He stared about him wondering. Then he fell 
Into deep dreamless slumber. 

He could see 
Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew 
He was awake, and it again was day — 
An August morning burning to clear blue. 
The frightened rabbit scuttled . . . 

63 



LIVELIHOOD 

Far away, 
A sound of firing . . . Up there, in the sky 
Big dragon-flies hung hovering . . . Snowballs 

burst 
About them . . . 

Flies and snowballs ! With a cry 
He crouched to watch the airmen pass — the first 
That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck — 
Shells bursting all about them — and what nerve! 
They took their chance, and trusted to their luck. 
At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, 
Dodging the shell-fire . . . 

Hell! but one was hit, 
And tumbling like a pigeon, plump . . . 

Thank Heaven, 
It righted, and then turned; and after it 
The whole flock followed safe — four, five, six, seven, 
Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'ld win 
Back to their lines in safety. They deserved, 
Even if they were Germans . . . 'Twas no sin 
To wish them luck. Think how that beggar 

swerved 
Just in the nick of time! 

He, too, must try 
To win back to the lines, though, likely as not, 
He'ld take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie 
For ever in that hungry hole and rot. 
He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance 
Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'ld be 
With any luck in Germany or France 
Or kingdom-come, next morning . . . 
64 



BETWEEN THE LINES 

Drearily 
The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell 
Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light 
Faded at last, and as the darkness fell 
He rose, and crawled away into the night. 



35 



STRAWBERRIES 

Since four she had been plucking strawberries: 
And it was only eight now; and the sun 
Already blazing. There'ld be little ease 
For her until the endless day was done . . . 

Yet, why should she have any ease, while he — 
While he . . . 

But there, she mustn't think of him, 
Fighting beneath that burning sun, maybe, — 
His rifle nigh red-hot, and every limb 
Aching for sleep, the sweat dried on his brow, 
And baking in the blaze, and such a thirst, 
Prickly and choking, she could feel it now 
In her own throat. He'd said it was the worst, 
In his last letter, worst of all to bear, 
That burning thirst — that, and the hellish noise . . . 

And she was plucking strawberries: and there 
In the cool shadow of the elm their boys, 
Their baby-boys, were sleeping quietly . . . 

But she was aching too: her head and back 
Were one hot blinding ache; and dizzily 
Sometimes across her eyes the light swam black 
With dancing spots of red . . . 

66 



STRAWBERRIES 

So ripe and sweet 
Among their fresh green leaves the strawberries 

lay, 
Although the earth was baking in the heat, 
Burning her soles — and yet the summer day 
Was young enough ! 

If she could only cram 
A handful of fresh berries sweet and cool 
Into his mouth, while he . . . 

A red light swam 
Before her eyes . . . 

She mustn't think, poor fool, 
What he'ld be doing now, or she'ld go crazed . . . 
Then what would happen to them left alone — 
The little lads! 

And he would be fair mazed, 
When he came back, to see how they had 

grown, 
William and Dick, and how they talked. Two 

year, 
Since he had gone — and he had never set 
His eyes upon his youngest son. 'Twas queer 
To think he hadn't seen his baby yet, — 
And it nigh fourteen months old. 

Everything 
Was queer in these days. She could never guess 
How it had come about that he could bring 
Himself to go and fight. 'Twas little less 
Than murder to have taken him, and he 
So mild and easy-tempered, never one 
For drink or picking quarrels hastily . . . 

67 



LIVEXIHOOD 

And now he would be fighting in that sun . . . 
'Twas quite beyond her. Yet, somehow, it seemed 
He'd got to go. She couldn't understand . . . 
When they had married, little had they dreamed 
What things were coming to! In all the land 
There was no gentler husband . . . 

It was queer: 
She couldn't get the rights of it, no way. 
She thought and thought, but couldn't get it 

clear 
Why he'd to leave his own work — making hay 
'Twould be this weather — leave his home, and 

all— 
His wife and his young family, and go 
To fight in foreign lands, and maybe fall, 
Fighting another lad he didn't know, 
And had no quarrel with . . . 

The world was mad, 
Or she was going crazy. Anyhow 
She couldn't see the rights of it . . . Her lad 
Had thought it right to go, she knew . . . 

But now 
She mustn't think about it all . . . And so 
She'd best stop puzzling, and pluck strawberries . . . 

And every woman plucking in the row 
Had husband, son, or brother overseas. 

Men seemed to see things differently: and still 
She wondered sore if even they knew why 
They went themselves, almost against their will . . . 

68 



STRAWBERRIES 

But sure enough, that was her baby's cry. 
'Twas feeding time: and she'ld be glad to rest 
Her back a bit. It always gave her ease, 
To feel her baby feeding at her breast, 
And pluck to go on gathering strawberries. 



69 



THE BLAST-FURNACE 

And such a night! But maybe in that mood 
'Twas for the best; for he was like to brood — 
And he could hardly brood on such a night 
With that squall blowing, on this dizzy height 
Where he caught every breath of it — the snow 
Stinging his cheek, and melting in the glow 
Above the furnace, big white flakes that fell 
Sizzling upon the red-hot furnace bell: 
And the sea roaring, down there in the dark, 
So loud to-night he needn't stop to hark — 
Four hundred feet below where now he stood. 
A lively place to earn a livelihood — 
His livelihood, his mother's, and the three 
Young sisters', quite a little family 
Depending on him now — on him, Jim Burn, 
Just nineteen past — to work for them, and earn 
Money enough to buy them daily bread 
Already . . . 

And his father on the bed 
At home . . . gey sudden . . . 

Nay, he mustn't think: 
But shove his trolley to the furnace brink, 
And tip his load upon the glowing bell, 
Then back again towards the hoist. 'Twas well 
He'd work to stop him thinking. He was glad 
His mate to-night was not a talky lad — 
But Peter, mum-glum Peter, who would stare 

70 



THE BLAST-FURNACE 

With such queer sulky looks upon the fire 
When round the dipping bell it shot up high 
With roar and flourish into that black sky. 
He liked to hear it roaring, liked to see 
The great flame leaping skyward suddenly, 
Then sinking slowly, as the bell rose up 
And covered it again with red-hot cup, 
When it would feed more quiet for a time 
Upon the meal of ironstone and lime 
He'd fetched it in his trolley . . . 

Ay, and he, 
Trundling his truck along that gallery 
High in the air all night to keep it fed — 
And all the while his father lying dead 
At home — to learn a livelihood. 'Twas strange 
To think what it all meant to him — the change . . . 

And strange he'd never thought before how 

queer 
It was for him, earning his bread up here 
On this blast-furnace, perched on the cliff- 
top — 
Four hundred feet or so, a dizzy drop, 
And he'ld be feeding fishes in the sea ! 
How loud it roared to-night, and angrily — 
He liked to hear it breaking on the shore, 
And the wind's threshing, and the furnace' roar: 
And then the sudden quiet, a dead lull, 
When you could only hear a frightened gull 
Screeching down in the darkness there below, 
Or a dog's yelp from the valley, or the snow 

7i 



LIVELIHOOD 

Sizzling upon hot iron. Queer, indeed, 
To think that he had never taken heed 
Before to-night, or thought about it all. 

He'd been a boy till this, and had no call 
To turn his mind to thinking seriously. 
But he'd grown up since yesterday; and he 
Must think a man's thoughts now — since yesterday 
When he'd not had a thought but who should play 
Full-back for Cleveland Rovers, now that Jack 
Had gone to Montreal, or should he back 
Old Girl or Cleopatra for the Cup. 

In four-and-twenty hours he had grown up . . . 
His father, sinking back there on the bed, 
With glassy eyes and helpless lolling head . . . 
The dropping jaw . . . the breath that didn't 

come, 
Though still he listened for it, frozen numb . . . 

And then, his mother . . . but he must not let 
His mind run on his mother now. And yet 
He'd often thought his father glum and grim. 
He understood now. It was not for him, 
His son, to breathe a word to her, when he, 
Her husband, had borne with her patiently 
Through all those years. Ay, now he understood 
Much, since he hadn't his own livelihood 
To think of only, but five mouths to feed — 
And the oldest, the most helpless ... He had 
need 

72 



THE BLAST-FURNACE 

To understand a little . . . 

But to-night 
He mustn't brood . . . And what a golden light 
The steady spurt of molten slag below 
Threw up upon the snow-clouds — and the snow 
Drifting down through it in great flakes of gold, 
Melting to steam, or driven, white and cold, 
Into the darkness on a sudden gust. 
And how the cold wind caught him, as he thrust 
His empty trolley back towards the hoist, 
Straight from the sea, making his dry lips moist 
With salty breath. 

'Twas strange to-night, how he 
Was noticing, and seeing suddenly 
Things for the first time he'd not seen before, 
Though he'd been on this shift at least a score 
Of times. But things were different somehow. 

Strange 
To think his father's death had wrought the 

change 
And made him see things different — little things: 
The sudden flashing of a sea-gull's wings 
Out of the dark, bewildered by the glare; 
And, when the flame leapt, mum-glum Peter's hair 
Kindling a fierier red; the wind; the snow; 
The unseen washing of the waves below 
About the cliff-foot. He could almost see. 
In fancy, breakers, frothing furiously 
Against the crumbling cliffs — the frantic spray 
Leaping into the darkness, nigh half-way 
Up the sheer height. 

73 



LIVELIHOOD 

And now his thoughts dropt back 
Into the valley, lying still and black 
Behind him— and the mine where other men 
Were toiling on their nightshift, even then 
Working the ironstone for daily bread, 
Their livelihood . . . 

He saw the little red 
Raw row of square brick houses, dark they'ld be 
And quiet now. Yet, plainly he could see 
The street he lived in — ay, and Number Eight, 
His father's house: the rusty iron gate; 
The unkempt garden; and the blistered door; 
The unwashed doorstep he'd not seen before, 
Or, leastways, hadn't noticed; and the bell 
That never rang, though he remembered well 
His father 'd tinkered it, times out of mind; 
And in each window, a drawn yellow blind 
Broken and grimy — and that blind, to-day 
Drawn down for the first time . . . 

His father lay 
In the front bedroom, quiet on the bed . . . 
And he, upon his usual shift . . . 

She'd said, 
His mother'd said; he shouldn't take his shift 
Before the undertaker'd been to lift . . . 
'Twas scarcely decent: that was what she said — 
Him working, and his father lying dead, 
And hardly cold . . . 

And she, to talk to him, 
His son, of decency, there, with that grim 
Half-smile still on her husband's cold white face! 

74 



THE BLAST-FURNACE 

He couldn't bide a moment in the place 
Listening to her chat-chatter, knowing all 
That he knew now . . . But there, he had no call 
To blame her, when his father'd never blamed. 
He wondered in that room she wasn't shamed . . . 

She didn't understand. He understood, 
Now he'd grown up; and had his livelihood, 
And theirs, to earn . . . 

Lord, but that was a rare 
Fine flourish the flame made, a bonnie flare 
Leaping up to the stars. The snow had stopt : 
He hadn't heeded: and the wind had dropt 
Suddenly: and the stars were shining clear. 
Over the furnace' roaring he could hear 
The waves wash- washing; and could see the foam 
Lifting and falling down there in the gloam . . . 
White as his father's face . . . 

He'd never heard 
His father murmur once — nay, not a word 
He'd muttered: he was never one to blame. 
And men had got to take things as they came. 



75 



IN THE MEADOW 

The smell of wet hay in the heat 

All morning steaming round him rose, 

As, in a kind of nodding doze, 

Perched on the hard and jolting seat, 

He drove the rattling jangling rake 

Round and around the Five Oaks Mead. 

With that old mare he scarcely need 

To drive at all or keep awake. 

Gazing with half-shut, sleepy eyes 

At her white flanks and grizzled tail 

That nicked and nicked without avail, 

To drive away the cloud of flies 

That hovered, closing and unclosing, 

A shimmering hum and humming shimmer, 

Dwindling dim and ever dimmer 

In his dazzled sight, till, dozing, 

He seemed to hear a murmuring stream 

And gaze into a rippling pool 

Beneath thick branches dark and cool — 

And gazing, gazing till a gleam 

Within the darkness caught his eyes, 

He saw there smiling up at him 

A young girl's face, now rippling dim, 

Now flashing clear . . . 

Without surprise 
He marked the eyes translucent blue, 
The full red lips that seemed to speak, 
The curves of rounded chin and cheek, 
76 



IN THE MEADOW 

The low, broad brow, sun-tanned . . . 

He knew 
That face, yet could not call to mind 
Where he had seen it; and in vain 
Strove to recall . . . when sudden rain 
Crashed down and made the clear pool blind, 
And it was lost . . . 

And, with a jerk 
That well-nigh shook him from his seat, 
He wakened to the steamy heat 
And clank and rattle. 

Still at work 
The stolid mare kept on; and still 
Over her hot, white flanks the flies 
Hung humming. And his dazzled eyes 
Closed gradually again, until 
He dozed . . . 

And stood within the door 
Of Dinchill dairy, drinking there 
Thirst-quenching draughts of stone-cold air — 
The scoured white shelves and sanded floor 
And shallow milk-pans creamy-white 
Gleamed coldly in the dusky light . . . 
And then he saw her, stooping down 
Over a milk-pan, while her eyes 
Looked up at him without surprise 
Over the shoulder of her gown — 
Her fresh print gown of speedwell blue . . . 
The eyes that looked out of the cool 
Untroubled crystal of the pool 
Looked into his again. 

77 



LIVELIHOOD 

He knew 
Those eyes now . . . 

From his dreamy doze 
A sudden jolting of the rake 
Aroused him. 

Startled broad awake 
He sat upright, lost in amaze 
That he should dream of her — that lass! — 
And see her face within the pool ! 

He'd known her always. Why, at school 
They'd sat together in the class. 
He'd always liked her well enough, 
Young Polly Dale — and they had played 
At Prisoners' Base and Who's Afraid, 
At Tiggy and at Blindman's Buff, 
A hundred times together . . . 

Ay, 
He'd always known her ... It was strange, 
Though he had noticed that a change 
Had come upon her — she was shy, 
And quieter, since she left school 
And put her hair up — he'd not seen 
Her face, till from the glancing sheen 
It looked up at him from the pool . . . 

He'd always known her. Every day, 
He'd nod to her as they would pass. 
He'd always known her, as a lass . . . 
He'ld never know her just that way 
Again now . . . 

78 



IN THE MEADOW 



In a different wise 
They'ld meet — for how could he forget 
His dream . . . The next time that they met 
He'ld look into a woman's eyes. 



79 



PARTNERS 

He'd got to see it through. Ay, that was plain — 
Plain as the damning figures on that page 
Which burnt and bit themselves into his brain 
Since he'd first lighted on them — such an age 
Since he'd first lighted on them! though the 

clock 
Had only ticked one hour out — its white face 
And black hands counting time alone — 

The shock 
Had dropped him out of time and out of space 
Into the dead void of eternity, 
Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead 
With wide set staring eyes that still could see 
Those damning figures burning hugely red 
On the low aching dome of the black heaven 
That crushed upon his temples — glaring bright — 
10,711— _ 
Searing his eyeballs . . . 

Yet his living sight 
Was fixed on the white ledger, while he sat 
Before his office-table in his chair — 
The chair he'd taken when he'd hung his hat 
Within the cupboard door, and brushed his 

hair, 
And stood a moment, humming "Chevy Chase," 
His hands beneath his coat-tails, by the grate, 

80 



PARTNERS 

Warming his back, and thinking of a case 
They'd won outright with costs, and . . . 

Phil was late: 
But Phil was Phil. At home they used to call 
His brother "Better-late." At every turn 
He'd had to wait for Phil. And after all 
There wasn't so much doing, now that concern . . . 

And little thinking anything was wrong, 
Laying his hand upon his own armchair 
To draw it out, still humming the old song, 
He'd seen the note from Philip lying there 
Upon the open ledger. 

Once, he read 
The truth, unrealising, and again. 
But only two words echoed through his head, 
And buzzed uncomprehended in his brain — 
"Embezzled" and "absconded." 

Phil had spelt 
His shame out boldly in his boyish hand. 
And then those figures . . . 

Dizzily he felt 
The truth burn through him. He could hardly 

stand, 
But sank into his chair with eyes set wide 
Upon those damning figures, murmuring "Phil!" 
And listening to the whirr of wheels outside, 
And sparrows cheeping on the window-sill — 
Still murmuring "Phil! Poor Phil!" 

But Phil was gone: 
And he was left alone to bear the brunt . . . 

81 



LIVELIHOOD 

"Phil! Little Phil!" 

And still the morning shone 
Bright at the window . . . 

Callous, curt and blunt 
The world would call his brother . . . not that 

name! 
And yet names mattered little at this pass. 
He'd known that Phil was slack . . . but this! 

The blame 
Was his as much as Phil's. As in a glass 
Darkly, he saw he'd been to blame as well: 
And he would bear the blame. Had he not known 
That Phil was slack? For all that he could tell, 
If he'd looked after Phil, this might . . . 

Alone 
He'd got to face the music. He was glad 
He was alone . . . And yet, for Phil's own sake 
If he had only had the pluck, poor lad, 
To see the thing through like a man, and take 
His punishment! 

For him, was no escape, 
Either by Phil's road, or that darker road. 
He knew the cost, and how the thing would 

shape — 
Too well he knew the full weight of the load 
He strapped upon his shoulders. It was just 
That he should bear the burden on his back. 
He'd trusted Phil; and he'd no right to trust 
Even his brother, knowing he was slack, 
When other people's money was at stake. 
He'd, too, been slack: and slackness was a crime — 

82 



PARTNERS 

The deadliest crime of all . . . 

And broad awake, 
As in a nightmare he was "doing time" 
Already . . . 

Yet, he'd only trusted Phil — 
His brother, Phil — and it had come to this! 

Always before whenever things went ill 
His brother'd turned to him for help; and his 
Had always been the hand stretched out to him. 
Now Phil had fled even him. If he'd but known! 

Brooding he saw with tender eyes grown dim 
Phil running down that endless road alone — 
Phil running from himself down that dark road — 
The road which leads nowhither, which is hell : 
And yearning towards him, bowed beneath his load, 
And murmuring "Little Phil!" . . . 

Again he fell 
Into the dead void of eternity, 
Lightless and aching, where his soul hung dead 
With wide-set staring eyes that still could see 
Those damning figures, burning hugely red 
On the low aching dome of the black heaven 
That crushed upon his temples — glaring bright — 
10,711— 
Searing his eyeballs . . . 

When a ripple of light 
Dappled his desk . . . 

And they were boys to- 
gether, 

83 



LIVELIHOOD 

Rambling the hills of home that April day, 
Stumbling and plunging knee-deep through the 

heather 
Towards Hallypike, the little lough that lay- 
Glancing and gleaming in the sun, to search 
For eggs of inland-breeding gulls. He heard 
The curlews piping; saw a blackcock perch 
Upon a dyke hard-by — a lordly bird 
With queer curled tail. And soon they reached the 

edge — 
The quaggy edge of Hallypike. And then 
The gulls rose at them screaming from the edge 
With napping wings. And for a while like men 
They stood their ground among the quaking moss, 
Until half-blinded by the dazzling white 
Of interweaving wings, and at a loss 
Which way to turn, they only thought of flight 
From those fierce cruel beaks and hungry eyes — 
Yet stood transfixed, each on a quaking clump, 
With hands to ears to shut out those wild cries. 
Then the gulls closed on Phil; and with a jump 
And one shrill yell he'd plunged into the lake 
Half-crazed with terror. Only just in time 
He'd stumbled after through the quag aquake 
And caught him by the coat; and through black 

slime 
Had dragged him into safety, far away 
From the horror of white wings and beaks and 

eyes. 
And he remembered now how Philip lay 
Sobbing upon his bosom . . . 

84 



PARTNERS 

Now those cries 
Were threatening Phil again; and he was caught 
Blind in a beating, baffling, yelling hell 
Of wings and beaks and eyes. And there was naught 
That he could do for him . . . 

Once more he fell 
Into the dead void of eternity, 
Lightless and aching, and his soul hung dead 
With wide set staring eyes that still could see 
Those damning figures, burning hugely red 
On the low aching dome of the black heaven 
That crushed upon his temples — glaring bright — 
10,711 

Searing his eyeballs . . . Then the pitchy night 
Rolled by . . . 

And now that summer noon they 

sat 
In the shallows of Broomlee lake, the water warm 
About their chins, and talked of this and that; 
And heeded nothing of the coming storm, 
Or the strange breathless stillness everywhere 
On which the dull note of the cuckoo fell 
Monotonously beating through dead air, 
A throbbing pulse of heat made audible. 
And even when the sky was brooding gray 
They'd slowly dressed, and started to walk round 
The mile-long lake: but when they'd got half-way, 
A heavy fear fell on them; and they found 
That they were clutching hands. The still lough 

gleamed 
Livid before them 'neath a livid sky 

85 



LIVELIHOOD 

Sleek and unrippling . . . Suddenly they screamed 
And ran headlong for home they knew not 

why — 
Ran stumbling through the heath, and never 

stopped — 
And still hot brooding horror on them pressed 
When they had climbed up Sewingshields, and 

dropped 
Dead-beat beneath the dyke. And on his breast 
Poor frightened Phil had sobbed himself to sleep. 

And even when the crashing thunder came, 
Phil snuggled close in slumber sound and deep. 
And he alone had watched the lightning flame 
Across the fells, and flash on Hallypike . . . 

And in his office chair, he felt once more 

His back against the sharp stones of the dyke, 

And Phil's hot clutching arms . . . 

An outer door 
Banged in the wind, and roused him . . . 

He was glad, 
In spite of all, to think he'd trusted Phil. 
He'd got to see it through . . . 

He saw the lad, 
His little frightened brother crouching still 
Beneath the brooding horror of the sky. 
That he might take him in his arms once more! 

Now, he must pull himself together, ay! 
For there was someone tapping at the door. 
86 



THE ELM 

The wind had caught the elm at last. 
He'd lain all night and wondered how 
'Twas bearing up against the blast: 
And it was down for ever now, 
Snapt like a match-stick. He, at dawn, 
Had risen from his sleepless bed, 
And, hobbling to the window, drawn 
The blind up, and had seen, instead 
Of that brave tree against the sky, 
Thrust up into the windless blue 
A broken stump not ten feet high . . . 

And it was changed, the world he knew, 
The world he'd known since he, tip-toe, 
Had first looked out beneath the eaves, 
And seen that tree at dawn, aglow, 
Soaring with all its countless leaves 
In their first glory of fresh green, 
Like a big flame above the mead. 

How many mornings he had seen 
It soaring since — well, it would need 
A better head to figure out 
Than his, now he was seventy-five, 
And failing fast without a doubt — 
The last of fifteen, left alive, 
That in that very room were born, 
Ay, and upon that very bed 
He'd left at daybreak. 

87 



LIVELIHOOD 

Many a morn 
He'd seen it, stark against the red 
Of winter sunrise, or in Spring — 
Some April morning, dewy-clear, 
With all its green buds glittering 
In the first sunbeams, soaring sheer 
Out of low mist. 

The morn he wed 
It seemed with glittering jewels hung . . . 

And fifty year, his wife was dead — 
And she, so merry-eyed and young . . . 

And it was black the night she died, 
Dead black against the starry sky, 
When he had flung the window wide 
Upon the night so crazily, 
Instead of drawing down the blind 
As he had meant. He was so dazed, 
And fumbled so, he couldn't find 
The hasp to pull it to, though crazed 
To shut them out, that starry night, 
And that great funeral-plume of black, 
So awful in the cold starlight. 
He'd fumbled till they drew him back, 
And closed it for him . . . 

And for long 
At night he couldn't bear to see 
An elm against the stars. 

'Twas wrong, 
He knew, to blame an innocent tree — 
88 



THE ELM 

Though some folk hated elms, and thought 
Them evil : for their great boughs fell 
So suddenly . . . 

George Stubbs was caught 
And crushed to death. You couldn't tell 
What brought that great bough crashing there, 
Just where George sat — his cider-keg 
Raised to his lips — for all the air 
Was still as death . . . And just one leg 
Stuck silly-like out of the leaves, 
When Seth waked up ten yards away 
Where he'd been snoozing 'mid the sheaves. 

'Twas queer-like; but you couldn't say 
The tree itself had been to blame. 
That bough was rotten through and through, 
And would have fallen just the same 
Though George had not been there . . . 

'Twas true 
That undertakers mostly made 
Cheap coffins out of elm . . . 

But he, 
Well, he could never feel afraid 
Of any living thing. That tree, 
He'd seemed to hate it for a time 
After she'd died . . . And yet somehow 
You can't keep hating without rhyme 
Or reason any live thing. 

Now 
He grieved to see it, fallen low, 
With almost every branch and bough 

89 



LIVELIHOOD 

Smashed into splinters. All that snow, 
A dead-weight, and that heavy blast, 
Had dragged it down: and at his feet 
It lay, the mighty tree, at last. 

And he could make its trunk his seat 
And rest awhile, this winter's noon 
In the warm sunshine. He could just 
Hobble so far. And very soon 
He'ld lie as low himself. He'd trust 
His body to that wood. 

Old tree, 
So proud and brave this many a year, 
Now brought so low . . . 

Ah ! there was he, 
His grandson, Jo, with never a fear 
Riding a bough unbroken yet — 
A madcap, like his father, Jim! 
He'ld teach him sense, if he could get 
Behind him with a stick, the limb! 



90 



THE DOCTOR 

Held soon be home. The car was running well, 
Considering what she'd been through, since the 

bell 
Tumbled him out again — just as his head 
Sank in the pillow, glad to get to bed 
After the last night's watching, and a day 
Of travelling snowy roads without a stay — 
To find the tall young shepherd at the door. 

"The wife's gey bad in child-bed" — and no more 
He'd said till they were seated in the car, 
And he was asked, Where to? and was it far? 
"The Scalp" he'd said — "Some fifteen mile or so." 

And they'd set out through blinding squalls of snow 
To climb the hills. The car could scarcely crawl 
At times, she skidded so; and with that squall 
Clean in his eyes he scarcely saw to steer — 
His big lamps only lit a few yards clear — 

But those young eyes beside him seemed to pierce 
The fifteen miles of smother fuming fierce 
Between the husband and his home — the light 
In that far bedroom window held his sight, 
As though he saw clean through the blinding squall 
To the little square stone steading that held all 
His heart — so solitary, bleak and grey 
Among the snow drifts on the windy brae, 

9i 



LIVELIHOOD 

Beyond the burn that, swollen, loud and black 
Threatened the single plank that kept the track 
Between them and the outside world secure. 
If that were gone, when he got back, for sure 
They'ld have to plunge waist-deep in that black 

spate 
And cling for life upon the old sheep-gate, 
If it were not gone too, to cross at all . . . 

And she ! He saw the shadow on the wall 

Behind the bed, his mother's as she bent 

To comfort Mary, for a moment spent 

By the long agony . . . That shadow seemed 

So black and threatening, and the candle gleamed 

So strangely in those wild bright eyes . . . 

They'ld be 
Lucky to reach the bank at all: for he 
Had been through that burn once on such a 

night: 
And he remembered how he'd had to fight 
The frothing flood, rolled over, beaten, bruised 
And well-nigh dragged down under, though well 

used 
To every mood and temper of the burn. 

Yet, though he gazed so far, he missed no turn 
In all those climbing miles of snow-blind way 
Until the car stopt dead by Gallows' Brae, 
And they'd to leave her underneath a dyke, 
And plunge knee-deep through drift-choked slack 
and syke 

92 



THE DOCTOR 

Until they reached the plank that still held fast 
Though quivering underfoot in that wild blast 
Like a stretched bow-string. Dizzily they crossed 
Above that brawling blackness, torn and tossed 
To flashing spray about the lantern. Then 
Setting their teeth, they took the brae, like men 
At desperate hazard charging certain death: 
And nigh the crest the doctor reeled — his breath 
Knocked out of him, and sinking helplessly 
Knew nothing till he wakened drowsily 
Before the peat and found himself alone 
In a strange kitchen. 

But a heavy moan 
Just overhead recalled him, and he leapt 
Instantly to his feet, alert, and crept 
Upstairs with noiseless step until he came 
To the low bedroom where the candle flame 
Showed the old woman standing by the bed 
On which the young wife lay. His noiseless tread 
Scarce startling them, he paused a moment while 
Those strained white lips and wild eyes strove to 

smile 
Bravely and tenderly as the husband bent 
Over the bed to kiss her. When he went 
Without a word, closing the creaking door 
And creeping quietly downstairs, once more 
The room was filled with moaning. 



When at last 
His part was done, and danger safely past, 

93 



LIVELIHOOD 

And into a wintry world with lusty crying 

That little life had ventured, and was lying 

Beside the drowsy mother on the bed, 

Downstairs the doctor stole with noiseless tread, 

And, entering the kitchen quietly, 

Saw the young father gazing fearfully 

Into the fire with dazed unseeing eyes. 

He spoke to him: and still he did not rise, 

But sat there staring with that senseless gaze 

Set on the peat that with a sudden blaze 

Lit up his drawn face, bloodless 'neath its tan. 

But when the doctor stooped and touched the man 

Upon the shoulder, starting to his feet 

He staggered, almost falling in the peat, 

Whispering ' ' She's safe ! She's safe ! ' ' 

And then he leapt 
Suddenly up the stair. The doctor crept 
Speedily after him without a sound : 
But when he reached the upper room he found 
He wasn't needed. The young husband bent 
Over his wife and baby, quiet, content: 
Then the wife stirred, opening her eyes, and 

smiled 
And they together looked upon their child. 
The doctor drowsed till dawn beside the peat, 
Napping uneasily in the high-backed seat, 
Half-conscious of the storm that shook the 

pane 
And rattled at the door . . . 

And now again 
He seemed to stand beside the lonely bed 

94 



THE DOCTOR 

He'd stood beside last night — the old man, 

dead, 
With staring eyes, dropt jaw, and rigid grin 
That held the stark white features, peaked and 

thin — 
The old man, left alone, with not a friend 
To make his body seemly in the end, 
Or close his eyes . . . 

And then the lusty cry 
Of that young baby screaming hungrily 
Broke through his dream. . . . 



The car was running well. 
He'ld soon be home, and sleeping — till the bell 
Should rouse him to a world of old men dying 
Alone, and hungry newborn babies crying. 



95 



THE LAMP 

She couldn't bring herself to bar the door — 
And him on the wrong side of it. Nevermore 
She'ld hear his footstep on the threshold- 
stone . . . 

"You're not afraid to lie all night alone, 

And Jim but newly drowned?" they'd asked: and 

she 
Had turned upon her neighbours wonderingly. 
"Afraid of what? " she said. "Afraid of him; " 
The neighbours answered. "Me — afraid of Jim! 
And after all these years!" she cried — -"and he — 
How can you think that he'ld bring harm to me? 
You know him better, surely, even you ! 
And I . . ." Then they had left her, for they knew 
Too well that any word that they could say 
Would help her nothing. 

When they'd gone away, 
Leaving her to her trouble, she arose, 
And, taking from the kist his Sunday clothes, 
Folded so neatly, kept so carefully 
In camphor, free of moth, half-absently 
She shook them out, and hung them up to air 
Before the fire upon his high-backed chair: 

96 



THE LAMP 

And then when they were aired she folded them 
Carefully, seam to seam and hem to hem, 
And smoothing them with tender hands, again 
She laid them in the kist where they had lain 
Six days a week for hard on forty year . . . 

Ay, forty year they'd shared each hope and fear — 
They two, together — yet she might not tend 
With loving hands his body in the end. 
The sea had taken him from her. And she — 
She could do nothing for him now. The sea 
Had taken him from her. And nevermore 
Might she do anything for him . . . 

The door 
Flapped in the wind. She shut and snecked it 

tight, 
But did not bolt it. Then she set a light 
In the white-curtained window, where it shone 
As clearly as on each night that he had gone 
Out with the boats in all that forty year, 
And each night she had watched it burning clear, 
Alone and wakeful . . . and, though lonelier, 
She'ld lie to-night as many a night she'd lain 
On her left side, with face turned towards the 

pane, 
So that, if she should wake, at once she'ld see 
If still her beacon-light burned steadily, 
Feeling that, may be, somewhere in the night 
Of those dark waters he could see the light 
Far off and very dim, a little spark 
Of comfort burning for him in the dark, 

97 



LIVELIHOOD 

And, even though it should dwindle from his sight, 
It seemed to her that he must feel the light 
Burning within his heart, the light of home . . . 

From those black cruel waters sudden foam 
Flashed as she gazed; and with a shuddering stir, 
As though cold drowning waves went over her, 
She stood a moment gasping. Then she turned 
From the bright window where her watch-light 

burned 
And, taking off her clothes, crept into bed 
To see if she could sleep. But when her head 
Touched the cold pillow, such hot restlessness 
She felt, she'd half-a-mind to rise and dress 
Each moment, as she tossed from side to side. 
The bed to-night seemed very big and wide 
And hard and cold to her, though a hot ache 
Held her whole body tingling wide awake 
Turning and tossing half the endless night. 

Then quieter she lay, and watched the light 

Burning so steadily, until the flame 

Dazzled her eyes, and golden memories came 

Out of the past to comfort her. She lay 

Remembering, — remembering that day 

Nigh twenty years since when she'd thought him 

drowned, 
And after all . . . 

She heard again the sound 
Of seas that swept a solid wall of green, 
Such seas as living eye had never seen, 
98 



THE LAMP 

Over the rock-bound harbour, with a roar 

Rushing the beach, tossing against the door 

Driftwood and old cork-floats, slashing the pane 

With flying weed again and yet again, 

As toppling to disaster, sea on sea 

Beneath that crashing wind broke furiously 

Almost upon the very threshold-stone 

In white tumultuous thunder. All alone 

She watched through that long morn: too much 

afraid 
To stir or do a hand's turn, her heart prayed 
One prayer unceasingly, though not a word 
Escaped her lips; till in a lull she heard 
A neighbour call out that the Morning Star 
Had gone ashore somewhere beyond Hell Scar, 
Hard by the Wick, and all . . . and then the roar 
Drowned everything. . . . 

And how she reached the door 
She never knew. She found herself outside 
Suddenly face to face with that mad tide, 
Battling for breach against a wind that fought 
Each inch with her, as she turned North, and 

caught 
Her bodily, and flung her reeling back 
A dozen times before she reached the track 
That runs along the crag-top to the Head. 
Bent double, still she struggled on, half-dead, 
For not a moment could she stand upright 
Against that wind, striving with all her might 
To reach the Wick. She struggled through that wind 
As through cold clinging water, deaf and blind; 
99 



LIVELIHOOD 

And numb and heavy in that icy air 

Her battered body felt, as though, stark-bare, 

She floundered in deep seas. Once in a lull 

Flat on her face she fell. A startled gull 

Rose skirling at her; and with burning eyes 

She lay a moment, far too scared to rise, 

Staring into a gully, black as night, 

In which the seething waters frothing white 

Thundered from crag to crag, and baffled leapt 

A hundred feet in air. She'd nearly stept 

Into that gully. Just in time the wind 

Had dropt. One moment more, and headlong, 

blind, 
She'd tumbled into that pit of death . . . and Jim, 
If he were living yet . . . 

The thought of him 
Startled her to her feet: and on once more 
Against a fiercer wind along the shore 
She struggled with set teeth, and dragging hair 
Drenched in the sousing spray that leapt in air 
Spinning and hissing, smiting her like hail. 

Then when it almost seemed that she must fail 
To reach the Wick, alive or dead, she found 
That she was there already. To the ground 
She sank, dead-beat. Almost too faint and weak 
To lift her head, her wild eyes sought the creek; 
But there she saw no sign of boat or man — 
Only a furious smother of seas that ran 
Along the slanting jetty ceaselessly. 
Groping for life, she searched that spumy sea 
ioo 



THE LAMP 

For sail or sign in vain: then knew no more . . . 
Till she was lifted by strong arms that bore 
Her safely through the storm, lying at rest 
Without a care upon her husband's breast 
Unquestioning, till she reached home, content 
To feel his arms about her, as he bent 
Over her tenderly and breathed her name. 

And then she heard how, back from death, he 

came 
Unscathed to her, by some strange mercy thrown 
Alive almost upon his threshold-stone: 
When, hearing where she'd gone, he'd followed her 
Hot-foot . . . 

The breath of dawn began to blur 
The shining pane with mist . . . And nevermore 
His foot would follow her along that shore. 
The sea had taken him from her, at last, 
Had taken him to keep . . . 

Then from the past 
She waked with eyes that looked beyond the 

light. 
Still burning clearly, into the lingering night, 
Black yet, beyond the streaming window-pane 
Down which big glistening drops of gentle rain 
Trickled until they dazzled her; and she lay 
Again remembering — how ere break of day 
When she was young she'd had to rise and go 
Along the crag-top some five mile or so, 
With other lads and lasses, to Skateraw 
To gather bait . . . 

IOI 



LIVELIHOOD 

Again her young eyes saw 
Those silent figures with their creels, dead-black 
Against the stars, climbing the sheer cliff-track 
In single file before her, or quite bright 
As suddenly the light-house flashed its light 
Full on them, stepping up out of the night 
On to the day-bright crag-top — kindling white, 
A moment, windy hair and streaming grass. 
Again she trudged, a drowsy little lass, 
The youngest of them all, across dim fields 
By sleeping farms and ruined roofless bields, 
Frightened by angry dogs that, roused from sleep, 
Yelped after them, or by a startled sheep 
That scurried by her suddenly, while she 
Was staring at a ship's lights out at sea, 
With dreaming eyes, or counting countless stars 
That twinkled bright beyond the jagged scars: 
Or stumbled over a slippery shingle-beach 
Beneath her creel, and shuddered at the screech 
And sudden clamour of wings that round her 

flapped. 
Again she felt that cruel cold. Though hapt 
In the big shawl, the raw wind searched her 

through 
Till every bone ached. Then once more she 

knew 
Brief respite when at last they reached Skateraw 
And rested till the dawn. 

Again she saw 
Those dark groups sitting quiet in the night 
Awaiting the first blink of morning-light, 
102 



THE LAMP 

To set to work gathering the bait, while she 
Sang to them as they sat beside the sea. 
They always made her sing, for she'd a voice 
When she was young, she had, and such a choice 
Of words and airs by heart: and she was glad 
To turn a tune for any lass or lad 
Who'ld ask her, always glad to hear them say: 
"Come, Singing Sally, give us 'Duncan Gray,' 
'The De'il among the Tailors,' 'Elsie Marley,' 
'The Keel-Row' or 'The Wind among the Bar- 

ley'"; 
And always gladdest when 'twas Jim would ask. 

Again, as they would settle to their task 
Of gathering clammy mussels, that cold ache 
Stole through her bones. It seemed her back must 

break 
Each time she stooped, or lifted up her head, 
Though still she worked with fingers raw and 

red 
Until her creel was filled. But, toiling back, 
Staggering beneath her load along the track, 
Jim would come up with her and take her creel 
And bear it for her, if she'ld sing a reel 
To keep their hearts up as they trudged along. 
Half-numb with sleep, she'ld start a dancing-song, 
And sing, the fresh wind blowing in her face, 
Until the dancing blood began to race 
Through her young body, and her heart grew 

light, 
Forgetting all the labours of the night . . . 
103 



LIVELIHOOD 

Once more she walked light-foot to that gay air, 
The wind of morning fresh on face and hair, 
A girl again . . . 

And Jim, 'twas always he 
Who bore her burden for her . . . 

Quietly 
With eyes upon the golden lamp she lay, 
While, all unseen of her, the winter day 
Behind the dim wet pane broke bleak and 
cold. 

She seemed to look upon a dawn of gold 
That kindled every dancing wave to glee 
As she walked homeward singing by the sea, 
As she walked homeward with the windy stir 
Fresh in her flying hair, and over her 
Jim leant — young lucky Jim — a kindly lad 
Taking the creel; and her girl's heart was 

glad 
As . . . 

. . . clasped within each other's arms, the 
deep 
Closed over them . . . 

Smiling, she fell asleep. 



104 



THE PLATELAYER 

Tapping the rails as he went by 
And driving the slack wedges tight, 
He walked towards the morning sky 
Between two golden lines of light 
That dwindled slowly into one 
Sheer golden rail that ran right on 
Over the fells into the sun. 

And dazzling in his eyes it shone, 
That golden track, as left and right 
He swung his clinking hammer — ay, 
'Twas dazzling after that long night 
In Hindfell tunnel, working by 
A smoky flare, and making good 
The track the rains had torn . . . 

Clink, clink, 
On the sound metal — on the wood 
A duller thwack! 

It made him blink, 
That running gold . . . 

'Twas sixteen hours 
Since he'd left home — his garden smelt 
So fragrant with the heavy showers 
When he left home — and now he felt 
That it would smell more fresh and sweet 
105 



LIVELIHOOD 

After the tunnel's reek and fume 
Of damp warm cinders. 'Twas a treat 
To come upon the scent and bloom 
That topped the cutting by the wood 
After the cinders of the track, 
The cinders and tarred sleepers — good 
To lift your eyes from gritty black 
Upon that blaze of green and red . . . 
And she'ld be waiting by the fence, 
And with the baby . . . 

Straight for bed 
He'ld make, if he had any sense, 
And sleep the day; but, like as not, 
When he'd had breakfast, he'ld turn to 
And hoe the back potato-plot: 
'Twould be one mass of weeds he knew. 
You'ld think each single drop of rain 
Turned as it fell into a weed. 
You seemed to hoe and hoe in vain. 
Chickweed and groundsel didn't heed 
The likes of him — and bindweed, well, 
You hoed and hoed — still its white roots 
Ran deeper . . . 

'Twould be good to smell 
The fresh turned earth, and feel his boots 
Sink deep into the brown wet mould, 
After hard cinders . . . 

And, maybe, 
The baby, sleeping good as gold 
In its new carriage under a tree, 
Would keep him company, while his wife 
106 



THE PLATELAYER 

Washed up the breakfast-things. 

'Twas strange, 
The difference that she made to life, 
That tiny baby-girl. 

The change 
Of work would make him sleep more sound. 
'Twas sleep he needed. That long night 
Shovelling wet cinders underground, 
With breaking back, the smoky light 
Stinging his eyes till they were sore . . . 
He'd worked the night that she was born, 
Standing from noon the day before 
All through that winter's night till morn 
Laying fog-signals on the line 
Where it ran over Devil's Ghyll . . . 

And she was born at half-past nine, 
Just as he stood aside until 
The Scots Express ran safely by . . . 
He'd but to shut his eyes to see 
Those windows flashing blindingly 
A moment through the blizzard — he 
Could feel again that slashing snow 
That seemed to cut his face. 

But they, 
The passengers, they couldn't know 
What it cost him to keep the way 
Open for them. So snug and warm 
They slept or chattered, while he stood 
And faced all night that raking storm — 
The little house beside the wood 
107 



LIVELIHOOD 

Forever in his thoughts: and he, 

Not knowing what was happening . . . 

But all went well as well could be 
With Sally and the little thing. 
And it had been worth while to wait 
Through that long night with work to do, 
To meet his mother at the gate 
With such good news, and find it true, 
Ay, truer than the truth. 

He still 
Could see his wife's eyes as he bent 
Over the bairn . . . 

The Devil's Ghyll 
Had done its worst, and he was spent; 
But he'ld have faced a thousand such 
Wild nights as thon, to see that smile 
Again, and feel that tender touch 
Upon his cheek. 

'Twas well worth while 
With such reward. And it was strange, 
The difference such a little thing 
Could make to them — how it could change 
Their whole life for them, and could bring 
Such happiness to them, though they 
Had seemed as happy as could be 
Before it came to them. 

The day 
Was shaping well. And there was she, 
The lassie sleeping quietly 
Within her arms, beside the gate. 

The storm had split that lilac tree. 
But he was tired, and it must wait. 
108 



MAKESHIFTS 

And after all, 'twas snug and weather- tight, 
His garret. That was much on such a night — 
To be secure against the wind and sleet 
At his age, and not wandering the street, 
A shuffling, shivering bag-of-bones. 

And yet 
Things would be snugger if he could forget 
The bundle of old dripping rags that slouched 
Before him down the Cannongate, and crouched 
Close to the swing-doors of the Spotted Cow. 
Why, he could see that poor old sinner now, 
Ay! and could draw him, if he'd had the knack 
Of drawing anything — a steamy, black 
Dilapidation, basking in the glare, 
And sniffing with his swollen nose in air 
To catch the hot reek when the door swings 

wide 
And shows the glittering paradise inside, 
Where men drink golden fire on seats of plush 
Lolling like gods: he stands there in the slush 
Shivering, from squelching boots to sopping hat 
One sodden clout, and blinking like a bat 
Be-dazzled by the blaze of light: his beard 
Waggles and drips from lank cheeks pocked and 

seared; 
And the whole dismal night about him drips, 
As he stands gaping there with watering lips 
109 



LIVELIHOOD 

And burning eyes in the cold sleety drench 
Afire with thirst that only death may quench. 

Yet he had clutched the sixpence greedily 

As if sixpennyworth of rum maybe 

Would satisfy that thirst. Who knows! It might 

Just do the trick perhaps on such a night, 

And death would be a golden, fiery drink 

To that old scarecrow. 'Twould be good to think 

His money'd satisfied that thirst, and brought 

Rest to those restless fevered bones that ought 

Long since to have dropped for ever out of 

sight. 
It wasn't decent, wandering the night 
Like that — not decent. While it lived it made 
A man turn hot to see it, and afraid 
To look it in the face lest he should find 
That bundle was himself, grown old and blind 
With thirst unsatisfied. 

He'd thirsted, too, 
His whole life long, though not for any brew 
That trickled out of taps in gaudy bars 
For those with greasy pence to spend ! 

The stars 
Were not for purchase, neither bought nor sold 
By any man for silver or for gold. 

Still, he was snug and sheltered from the storm. 
He sat by his own hearth secure and warm, 
And that was much indeed on such a night. 
The little room was pleasant with the light 
no 



MAKESHIFTS 

Glowing on lime-washed walls, kindling to red 
His copper pots, and, over the white bed, 
The old torn Rembrandt print to golden gloom. 
'Twas much on such a night to have a room — 
Four walls and ceiling storm- tight overhead. 
Denied the stars — well, you must spend instead 
Your sixpences on makeshifts. Life was naught 
But toiling for the sixpences that bought 
Makeshifts for stars. 

'Twas snug to hear the sleet 
Lashing the panes and sweeping down the street 
Towards Holyrood and out into the night 
Of hills beyond. Maybe it would be white 
On Arthur's Seat to-morrow, white with snow — 
A white hill shining in the morning glow 
Beyond the chimney-pots, that was a sight 
For any man to see — a snowy height 
Soaring into the sunshine. He was glad 
Though he must live in slums, his garret had 
A window to the hills. 

And he was warm, 
Ay, warm and snug, shut in here from the storm. 
The sixpences bought comfort for old bones 
That else must crouch all night on paving-stones 
Unsheltered from the cold. 

'Twas hard to learn 
In his young days that this was life — to earn 
By life-long labour just your board and bed — 
Although the stars were singing overhead, 
The sons of morning singing together for joy 
As they had sung for every bright-eyed boy 
in 



LIVELIHOOD 

With ears to hear since life itself was young — 
And leave so much unseen, so much unsung. 

He'd had to learn that lesson. 'Twas no good 

To go star-gazing for a livelihood 

With empty belly. Though he had a turn 

For seeing things, when you have got to earn 

Your daily bread first, there is little time 

To paint your dream or set the stars to rhyme: 

Nay, though you have the vision and the 

skill 
You cannot draw the outline of a hill 
To please yourself, when you get home half- 
dead 
After the day's work — hammers in your head 
Still tapping, tapping . . . 

Always mad to draw 
The living shape of everything he saw 
He'd had to spend his utmost skill and strength 
Learning a trade to live by, till at length 
Now he'd the leisure the old skill was dead. 

Born for a painter as it seemed, instead 
He'd spent his life upholstering furniture. 
'Twas natural enough men should prefer 
Upholstery to pictures, and their ease 
To little coloured daubs of cows and trees. 
He didn't blame them, 'twas no fault of theirs 
That they saw life in terms of easy chairs, 
And heaven, like that old sinner in the slush, 
A gHtteruig bar upholstered in red plush. 
112 



MAKESHIFTS 

'Twas strange to look back on it now, his life . . . 
His father, married to a second wife; 
And home, no home for him since he could mind, 
Save when the starry vision made him blind 
To all about him, and he walked on air 
For days together, and without a care . . . 
But as the years passed, seldomer they came 
Those starry dazzling nights and days aflame, 
And oftener a sudden gloom would drop 
Upon him, drudging all day in the shop 
With his young brother John — John always gay 
Taking things as they came, the easy way, 
Not minding overmuch if things went wrong 
At home, and always humming a new song . . . 

And then she came into his life, and shook 
All heaven about him. He had but to look 
On her to find the stars within his reach. 
But, ere his love had trembled into speech, 
He'd waked one day to know that not for him 
Were those bright living eyes that turned dreams 

dim — 
To know that while he'd worshipped, John and she 
Had taken to each other easily . . . 

But that was years ago . . . and now he sat 
Beside a lonely hearth. And they were fat — 
Ay, fat and old they were, John and his wife, 
And with a grown-up family. Their life 
Had not been over-easy: they'd their share 
Of trouble, ay, more than enough to spare: 
113 



LIVELIHOOD 

But they had made the best of things, and taken 
Life as it came with courage still unshaken. 
They'd faced their luck, but never gone half-way 
To meet fresh trouble. Life was always gay 
For them between the showers: the roughest 

weather 
Might do its worst — they always stood together 
To bear the brunt, together stood their ground 
And came through smiling cheerfully. They'd 

found 
Marriage a hard-up, happy business 
Of hand-to-mouth existence more or less; 
But taking all in all, well worth their while 
To look on the bright side of things — to smile 
When all went well, not fearing overmuch 
When life was suddenly brought to the touch 
And you'd to sink or swim. And they'd kept 

hold, 
And even now, though they were fat and old 
They'd still a hearty grip on life . . . 

They'ld be 
Sitting there in their kitchen after tea 
On either side the fire-place even now — 
Jane with her spectacles upon her brow, 
And nodding as she knitted, listening 
While John, in shirt-sleeves, scraped his fiddle- 
string, 
With one ear hearkening lest a foot should stop 
And some rare customer invade the shop 
To ask the price of that old Flanders' chest 
Or oaken ale-house settle . . . 
114 



MAKESHIFTS 

They'd the best 
Of life, maybe, together . . . 

And yet he — 
Though he'd not taken life so easily, 
Had always hated makeshifts more or less, 
Grudging to swop the stars for sixpences, 
And was an old man now, with that old thirst 
Unsatisfied — ay, even at the worst 
He'd had his compensations, now and then 
A starry glimpse. You couldn't work with men 
And quite forget the stars. Though life was 

spent 
In drudgery, it hadn't only meant 
Upholstering chairs in crimson plush for bars . . . 
Maybe it gave new meaning to the stars, 
The drudgery, who knows! 

At least the rare 
Wild glimpses he had caught at whiles were 

there 
Yet living in his mind. When much was dim 
And drudgery forgotten, bright for him 
Burned even now in memory old delights 
That had been his in other days and nights. 
He'd always seen, though never could express 
His eyes' delight, or only more or less: 
But things once clearly seen, once and for all 
The soul's possessions — naught that may befall 
May ever dim, and neither moth nor rust 
Corrupt the dream, that, shedding mortal dust, 
Has soared to life and spread its wings of gold 
Within the soul . . . 

US 



LIVELIHOOD 

And yet when they were told 
These deathless visions, little things they seemed 
Though something of the beauty he had dreamed 
Burned in them, something of his youth's desire . . . 

And as he sat there, gazing at the fire — 
Once more he lingered, listening in the gloom 
Of that great silent warehouse, in the room 
Where stores were kept, one hand upon a shelf, 
And heard a lassie singing to herself 
Somewhere unseen without a thought who heard, 
Just singing to herself like any bird 
Because the heart was happy in her breast, 
As happy as the day was long. At rest 
He lingered, listening, and a ray of light 
Streamed from the dormer-window up a height; 
Down on the bales of crimson cloth, and lit 
To sudden gold the dust that danced in it, 
Till he was dazzled by the golden motes 
That kept on dancing to those merry notes 
Before his dreaming eyes, and danced as long 
As he stood listening to the lassie's song . . . 

Then once again, his work-bag on his back, 
He climbed that April morning up the track 
That took you by a short cut through the wood 
Up to the hill-top where the great house stood, 
When suddenly beyond the firs' thick night 
He saw a young fawn frisking in the light: 
Shaking the dew-drops in a silver rain 
From off his dappled hide, he leapt again 
116 



MAKESHIFTS 

As though he'ld jump out of his skin for joy. 
With laughing eyes light-hearted as a boy 
He watched the creature unaware of him 
Quivering with eager life in every limb, 
Leaping and frisking on the dewy green 
Beneath the flourish of the snowy gean, 
While every now and then the long ears pricked, 
And budding horns, as he leapt higher, flicked 
The drooping clusters of wild-cherry bloom, 
Shaking their snow about him. From the gloom 
Of those dark wintry firs, his eyes had won 
A sight of April sporting in the sun — 
Young April leaping to its heart's delight 
Among the dew beneath the boughs of white . . . 

And there'd been days among the hills, rare 

days 
And rarer nights among the heathery ways — 
Rare golden holidays when he had been 
Alone in the great solitude of green 
Wave-crested hills, a rolling shoreless sea 
Flowing for ever through eternity — 
A sea of grasses, streaming without rest 
Beneath the great wind blowing from the 

west, 
Over which cloud shadows sailed and swept 

away 
Beyond the world's edge all the summer day. 

The hills had been his refuge, his delight, 
Seen or unseen, through many a day or night. 
117 



LIVELIHOOD 

His help was of the hills, steadfast, serene 

In their eternal strength, those shapes of 

green 
Sublimely moulded. 

Whatsoever his skill, 
No man had ever rightly drawn a hill 
To his mind — never caught the subtle curves 
Of sweeping moorland with its dips and swerves — 
Nor ever painted heather . . . 

Heather came 
Always into his mind like sudden flame, 
Blazing and streaming over stony braes 
As he had seen it on that day of days 
When he had plunged into a sea of bloom, 
Blinded with colour, stifled with the fume 
Of sun-soaked blossom, the hot heady scent 
Of honey-breathing bells, and sunk content 
Into a soft and scented bed to sleep; 
And he had lain in slumber sweet and deep, 
And only wakened when the full moon's light 
Had turned that wavy sea of heather white : 
And still he'd lain within the full moon blaze 
Hour after hour, bewildered and adaze 
As though enchanted — in a waking swoon 
He'd lain within the full glare of the moon 
Until she seemed to shine on him alone 
In all the world — as though his body'd grown 
Until it covered all the earth, and he 
Was swaying like the moon-enchanted sea 
Beneath that cold white witchery of light . . . 
And now, the earth itself, he hung in night 
118 



MAKESHIFTS 

Turning and turning in that cold white glare 
For ever and for ever . . . 

She was there — 
There at his window now, the moon. The sleet 
And wind no longer swept the quiet street. 
And he was cold: the fire had burnt quite low: 
And, while he'd dreamt, there'd been a fall of 

snow 
He wondered where that poor old man would 

hide 
His head to-night with thirst unsatisfied . . . 
His thirst, who knows! but night may quench the 

thirst 
Day leaves unsatisfied . . . 

Well, he must first 
Get to his bed and sleep away the night, 
If he would rise to see the hills still white 
In the first glory of the morning light. 



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